


Five Luminous Minutes

by kawree, manicExpressive



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen, Italian Mafia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-24
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-19 09:32:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 49,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/571808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kawree/pseuds/kawree, https://archiveofourown.org/users/manicExpressive/pseuds/manicExpressive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Big Apple, the City That Never Sleeps--call it what you will, but New York City has always been a place to make yourself. That's the dream, at least. The glittering lights hide a dark underbelly that has been swelling to the surface for years, bringing with it the slime of corruption that makes most wonder if it's even worth saving. With a growing underground, law enforcement has its work cut out.</p><p>Dante and Vergil may be twins, but they couldn't be more different. What happens when two brothers end up on opposite sides of the law and wind up dragged into a mafia conspiracy that spans not only two decades, but two continents?</p><p>...one hell of a crazy party!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings, earthlings! This fic was posted here once upon a time, but then we authorfolks got attacked by the hideous monster that is Real Life and were unable to continue working on it. It was taken down because we weren't sure we would have the time or resources to complete it, and nothing's more infuriating than an unfinished fic that hasn't updated in two years... But things have improved and we're working on moving forward with the story again, so we thought we'd go ahead and share it here once more. We hope you'll give us another shot at entertaining you! Thanks for reading!

Wednesday, 02November, 21:47:03  
26th Precinct Station House, Manhattan, NY

I had been staring at the case files again when the call came. I had read the words so many times the ink felt like it was smeared across my retinas and all of the crime scene photos were starting to look the same. I had the entire puzzle put together: I had all the evidence, the matching MOs, the identical ballistics, the victim patterns... All I needed was my perp, and that last piece of the puzzle had been a gaping hole in my case records for the past two years. It was infuriating. How could he have evaded me this long? It just wasn't possible--it was like he wasn't even human. The power he had over the precinct office was astounding; everyone knew this guy, and everyone was in awe of his ability to cover his tracks.

It had been my first case. The captain said it would be a cut and dry homicide case, like a thousand others that came across the desks; it would be a piece of cake, even for a rookie. Some vigilante type had taken matters into his own hands and murdered a piece of underworld scum; it was straightforward and simple, or so we had thought. I don't think the captain ever expected it to become the bloated multi-incident file it had. I knew that when I caught him, the hold he had over the station would then be mine. _I_ would have that power and command that sort of reverence and awe, and I wanted it terribly.

The phone rang again, jarring and intrusive. Tearing my eyes from the manila folder, I reached for the phone and lifted it from its cradle.

"Zavattoni."

"Sir, there's a situation." The voice was thin, worried, too strained. It was one of the newer detectives from my precinct; a rookie just a few months out of the academy. He insisted on calling me sir, which wasn't necessary, considering I outranked him on seniority alone, but I wasn't going to stop him.

"Salazar? Didn't you leave the office half an hour ago?" I asked, glancing at my watch; it was nearing 10pm. "I thought you'd gone home." There was a shuffling sound, and I could hear sirens in the background. "Salazar, what's going on?"

"No, sir, I was headed up to the Bronx following up a lead, and..." Salazar grunted like he'd been shoved, and then there were angry voices telling him to step back and get out of the way. "I think you should just come up here."

I didn't understand what his case could possibly have to do with me, but he seemed so insistent I figured it had to be something serious. Salazar was no-nonsense and firm, which was something I appreciated about him, so maybe it was okay to give him the benefit of the doubt just this once. He couldn't stay a screw-up rookie forever.

"All right, where are you?" I asked, rising and grabbing my long coat from where it was draped over the back of my chair.

"Larry Iron Works, Lincoln and East 134th," he replied.

"I'm on my way," I said, and I cast one last glance at the open file on my desk before closing it and hanging up the phone. The last thing I wanted to do was drive my car across the 3rd Street bridge--taking a Lexus into The South Bronx was just asking to get carjacked, but I wasn't going to waste money on a cab when I knew 85% of the cabbies in the city were illegal. That was just condoning their behavior. Wasting time on the train wasn't really an option, either, if Salazar was honestly in a bad situation. 

The fact that he had clearly not wanted to disclose details on the phone only fueled my assurance that something was seriously wrong. Salazar wasn't really my problem; I wasn't a babysitter, but whatever he had found had been enough to warrant a phone call, and that was enough to tear me away from pouring over the same damn files I'd been staring at all evening. It wasn't like I was making any progress just looking at them for the thousandth time.

Sliding my coat on, I retrieved my blade from the rack at the side of my desk and slid it through my belt and then headed for the door. Stepping back quickly as I saw a figure approach through the glass, I reached out and pulled it open when I recognized the sergeant, his heavy fingers closed around the upper arm of a skinny blond woman who really wasn't dressed for the weather.

Sergeant Christopher Langdon was a tall man with shaggy brown hair and a grin that didn't belong on a police officer. He put too much effort into acting cool and likable, in my opinion, which wasn't something a cop needed to really concern himself with. I would have had a hard time respecting him if he weren't so good at his job.

"Leaving so soon, Vergil?" he asked as he nodded a thanks for holding the door. "It's not like you to head home this early. Run out of midnight oil?"

"Hardly," I replied, raising my voice only enough to be heard over the struggling and raving of the skinny woman, who was busy calling the sergeant a filthy pig. "Salazar called; said he wanted me to come see something up at Lincoln and 134th."

"Salazar?" 

The sergeant sat the woman down in a chair near the door and shook a finger at her: a silent order to stay put. She spat at his feet. I curled my lip and looked away. We really did deal with scum in this job; how a woman could flaunt herself like that, degrading her body and her spirit so? It was appalling.

"I thought he was working on something out in Queens," Christopher said, shaking his head. "And what's he want with you?"

I shrugged. "He just seemed urgent," I said. I didn't say it, but I was wondering if he'd found something that matched my open case file's MO. I really couldn't think of any other reason he would have called me specifically. I gave the sergeant a look then, still pointedly ignoring the prostitute in the chair. "My paperwork is done for the evening, so I supposed it wouldn't hurt to... indulge him this once."

Christopher laughed, that broad grin still looking out of place between his pronounced cheekbones and stern, narrow eyes. He clapped me on the shoulder and pulled the whore up out of her chair, tugging her back toward the interrogation room.

"Just don't make a habit of indulging people, Vergil," he chided, "or you'll end up with a reputation like mine."

"Perish the thought," I replied flatly, dusting off the shoulder of my coat.

"Oh, is the captain out?" he asked then, and I turned back to look at him, watching for a moment as his frame shook gently while the prostitute yanked against his grip for all she was worth.

I shook my head. "Yes, he left about an hour ago," I said; "said he had to follow up on something and that he would probably be back late if at all." I pointed to the closed door of the captain's office. "The door isn't locked, though; you could leave him a message. Unfortunately, you know he never answers his cell phone when he's out."

"That's management for you," he said. "See you in the morning, then."

"Right."

With a halfhearted wave over one shoulder, I turned and pulled the door open, heading out into the chilly night. It probably wouldn't be too long a drive to the Bronx by this time of night, especially on a Wednesday. I only hoped I wouldn't end up having to bill Salazar for paint damage if my car got keyed indulging him. Paperwork was such a hassle, after all.

* * *

I would never understand the romanticizing of New York City. In a way, I supposed it was indeed the city that never slept, but it certainly wasn't the center of the universe as its nickname suggested, nor did it even remotely resemble an apple, regardless of the size. Truman Capote had said once that New York was 'the only real city-city', and much as I respected the man as an author I had no idea what he meant by that.

New York was grungy and sick: bad posture cast in cinderblock and colored in shades of sepia to hide the stains. It was an open wound too dirty to heal and so it festered, stinking of rot and infection and oozing the filth of humanity. The Upper East and West Sides did a decent job of covering for the rest of the city's detestable health problems, as it were, but they didn't change the fact that there were days that even the fine china and clean lines of my corner apartment couldn't get my mind off the blood and sweat and track marks that tarnished New York's skin.

As I crossed the 3rd Street bridge into the Bronx, I was reminded all over again why I rarely left Manhattan. If New York City was the armpit of the state, then The South Bronx was an ingrown hair. Turning onto East 134th, I could already see the flashing lights of the squad cars and emergency vehicles that had responded to the scene already. Blue and red and gold flickered on building facades, shuddering and casting sharp, irregular shadows through the fire escapes. Putting the car in park, I stepped out and approached one of the officers standing at the crime scene tape barricade.

"Sir, we need to keep this area clear," he said.

"I'm detective Zavattoni, from the 26th," I said. "I was asked to make an appearance." He frowned when I showed him my badge, as if my not being in uniform somehow made me less allowed to be there, but dutifully lifted the string of tape. I ducked beneath it, approaching the small cluster of EMTs near the ambulance parked along the side of the tall, flat building of Larry Iron Works.

I held up my badge again as one of the EMTs raised her eyes to me, and then she stepped back with a shake of her head.

"Sir!"

Before I could step into the spot she'd vacated to have a look at the victim, however, a voice broke through the diffused murmur of radio chatter and hushed discussion, and I looked up in time to watch Salazar rush toward me. His foot caught on the edge of a pothole in the asphalt of the parking lot and he pitched forward almost comically, and I watched, mostly disinterested, as he peeled himself up off the pavement and scrabbled toward me again.

Alejandro Salazar was a compact man, with close-cropped ink-black hair and a thin mustache that always appeared to be a little uneven on his upper lip. He was a little rumpled, as usual, thought it was never because he was lazy or didn't care about his appearance; he was just in a constant state of uptight, almost to the point of perpetual encroaching heart attack. He was tiring to look at.

"Sir, I'm glad you're here," he said, dusting off the knees of his slacks. "Here, come with me." He headed for the spot the female EMT had vacated, and I found myself wondering why he had assumed I wasn't capable of figuring out that was where I was supposed to go myself. "I was in the area nearby when I heard a call on my radio that something had happened here, so I responded. I was... so surprised... when I saw what happened," he said, but I wasn't really listening. Stepping in front of him, I peered into the circle of emergency personnel milling about and then approached the fallen body on the ground.

I dropped to a crouch, reaching for the pale blue sheet that covered the victim's head, and paused only long enough to glance back and note the look of horror on Salazar's face. Why was this so upsetting? It wasn't like he'd never seen a dead body before. People always said that it never got any easier to look at a corpse, but I disagreed: if you'd seen one corpse, you'd seen most of them.

Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw when I pulled that sheet back, however, and I actually gasped, dropping the fabric and watching it crumple almost too heavily on the victim's face. _His_ face. ... The captain's face. _My_ captain's face. Suddenly Salazar's alarm made more sense, but whereas his concern probably lied more in the fact that our commanding officer was dead, mine was rooted in why he was dead here, in an empty parking lot in The South Bronx. What exactly had he been following up on that had led him here? What sort of trouble had Jonathan Arkham discovered that had gotten him killed?

"Let me through! Get your _hands_ off me--I said let me _through,_ dammit!"

I glanced up from the captain's body when a woman's voice pierced the quiet drone of the crime scene, and watched as the crowd split apart violently. She was not tall, with dark hair that feathered around her face and a thin scar across the bridge of her nose. The first several buttons of her collared shirt were undone and the sleeves were rolled back to her elbows, her smart slacks had a plaid pleated miniskirt inexplicably layered over them. She was wearing obnoxiously red boots that didn't match anything, and as usual refused to wear a coat despite the fact that it was barely 40 degrees outside.

"Mary." 

Her name left my lips before I even realized I'd recognized her--Mary Arkham. It had been a while. Her father had been one of my mentors at the academy before I was assigned to the 26th Precinct to work under him. I had met Mary during the academy graduation ceremony; she had been working narcotics at the 17th Precinct for a few years already, and when she learned that her father had recruited me for his own precinct, she decided she was going to have to keep an eye on me. I wasn't sure whether that was a good thing or not at the time, but despite having too much temper on too short a fuse, Mary was a good cop, and a real weapons expert. As much as I didn't care for guns, it was interesting to watch the way she could wield them. It was a little nostalgic.

She pushed another EMT out of the way and sort of stumbled into the cleared circle of asphalt, and her eyes swung to me. For half an instant there was accusation in her eyes, like maybe it was my fault her father was dead, like maybe I should have been keeping an eye on him, but it was gone as soon as it was there, and she dropped to her knees beside her father's fallen form, pulling the sheet back and staring at his face a moment. Her eyes seemed to trace the lines of the old burn scar that covered half of his face. He'd gotten that working a case shortly after my induction; a bust of an alleged gang house had been rigged, the location riddled with flash bombs. The guys back at the precinct had teased him about it--called him Two-Face, like the villain from the Batman comics. Mary had always gotten so angry when they'd called him that, her eyes smoldering with an unspoken fury.

Pulling the sheet back further, she looked at me, her mismatched eyes narrow.

"Who did this?" she asked, her voice low, and I shook my head.

"I don't know. I was just called here myself."

She tossed the sheet aside, revealing a bloody stain on the front of his shirt, and Mary scoffed in disgust.

"Bastard got himself stabbed?" she snarled. "After all this, he gets himself _stabbed."_ I found myself wondering what she was so angry about. Obviously, she should have been upset that her father had been killed, but the anger at the method seemed a little displaced. Her eyes met mine again, all fire and steel, and she pressed her lips together. "Are you taking this case?" she asked, and I hesitated.

Was I? Homicide wasn't really my department; I usually worked in the circles that made busts of suspected gang hangouts. My team was an undercover mafia reconnaissance squad, combing the city's underbelly for signs of mob presence. Mary knew that.

"Do you think this is gang-related?" I asked her, and she gestured at the stab wound.

"This was made with a large, likely serrated blade," she rattled off quickly, "and there's no sign of the weapon anywhere. He's got contusions all over his head and face, indicating he was significantly roughed up before he was stabbed, and there's no blood trail, indicating he was killed right here, in this parking lot, in an area that has several established gangs." She folded her arms, and I frowned at the way her collar and throat was so visible, with her shirt unbuttoned like that, the way her breasts pressed together above her folded forearms. Such impropriety.

She scowled expectantly at me, and I sighed. I supposed I owed her father this much.

"Fine, I'll talk to the head of the four-oh and see if I can take custody of the case," I said. "It's technically on the 40th's turf, but he's my captain, so I can probably take it over."

"See that you do," she said tersely, rising to her feet again and straightening her unnecessary skirt. "I'll see you tomorrow morning."

"Wait, what?" I stood up and frowned at her. "Even if I take this case over, you're in the 17th."

"And he's my father, and I'm working this case with you, Vergil."

I could have insisted she was already too close to this case to face it reasonably. I could have told her that it was against protocol to pair up with cops from other precincts. I could have just said no. But nothing ever seemed to deter Mary when she really got something in her head, and I had a feeling no matter what I said she would find a way around every roadblock I attempted to erect in her path.

Kneading my forehead, I sighed. "Fine, I'll see you in the morning," I said, and then pointed a finger at her. "Don't be late."

"I'll bring donuts," she replied snidely, then turned on her heel and stalked off. I cast one last look at the captain's body, then glanced back at Salazar, who was looking two shades too pale and like he was trying not to vomit.

"Salazar, go home," I instructed, adjusting the lapel of my coat and waving a hand at him. "I'll take this from here." He scurried off, almost too relieved to be dismissed, and I headed back to my car. I was going to have to make a trip down to the 40th Precinct station house and talk to their captain about taking over the case. Hopefully the fact that it had been my captain who was killed would be enough to swing the case transfer, because other methods would end up being so much messier.

I wouldn't have wished an angry Mary Arkham's wrath on anyone.


	2. Chapter 2

Thursday, 03November, 11:04:47  
3rd and E 137th, The Bronx, NY

I only had to work with Mary Arkham for about five minutes to know I didn't like it. I would admit that she was a good cop, but her methods were completely askew from my own. She was impulsive and sharp, acrid and almost caustic in her questioning. After she frightened our first two informants so badly they refused to say anything more until she got her gun out of their face, I had to step in and literally forbid her to speak while I drew further information out with a but more finesse. She walked with a kind of driven purpose that I'd only seen in animals stalking prey, and her face seemed consistently pulled into a suspicious glower, as if she were under the impression that the whole damn world was just waiting for her to drop her guard so it could stab her in the back.

To be honest, it was a sentiment I rather shared a lot of the time, but there was nothing subtle or discreet about her reactions to life in general. I found myself thinking that she might have had a pretty face if she stopped scowling long enough, but I had yet to find any evidence that she was capable.

After prying her off of a tall broad-shouldered black man with more hair on his chin than on his head, I excused us from the immediate scene and pressed her against the side of the nearest building.

"Are you _trying_ to completely compromise this investigation?" I hissed, and she narrowed those fiery eyes of hers and bared her teeth.

"You know the people who live around here don't give a damn about the cops," she said, her voice a low growl. "They couldn't care less if we find what we're looking for, and I wouldn't be surprised if they turned right around and informed the people they just told us about that we were coming for them!"

She reached up and shoved me backward, and I yielded only because this argument wasn't worth it. Stepping back and putting my hands up to let her move away from the building, I simply warned, "Tone it down."

"Or what?" she asked, sauntering past me, a hand on her hip. She was wearing another one of those completely vestigial plaid skirts over her slacks again.

I whirled on her and took her chin in one hand, bringing her face close to mine.

"Or I'll continue investigating your father's death _without_ you," I snarled.

"You wouldn't," she challenged, and my grip on her jaw tightened until she squeaked in pain.

"I have neither the time nor the patience to allow you to continue obstructing this case with your temper," I said. "You were on thin ice from the beginning--any fool can see you're way too close to this--but I was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt and let you investigate because I know how exactly how you feel." 

She knew. She knew my parents were dead, and she knew I'd taken the specific assignment to gang-busts in an attempt to wheedle my way into information about the mafia presence in the city because of it. I knew _exactly_ how she felt, and she knew it.

I released her roughly and she backpedaled--one step, two--and then lifted her hand to rub her jaw, glowering again. 

"Don't make me regret going out on a limb for you, Mary," I said as she walked away from me, "or so help me I'll pull you off this case so fast you'll be back to sorting heroin needles by lunch."

She might have muttered something I couldn't make out, or she might have said nothing; I didn't really care. All I knew was I had never managed to get heartburn _before_ eating lunch until now.

* * *

In the end, it didn't really matter whether or not she scared off our informants, because by the time we ducked into a diner to get out of the cold and get something to eat, we were really only two paces beyond where we'd started.

"Four hours wasted," she said, sliding onto the bar stool at the counter and plunking her chin into her upturned palm. "If I didn't know better I'd say we had _less_ information than when we started." 

The way she stuck her lower lip out and drew her eyebrows together so her forehead crinkled reminded me of high school and how everything was a crisis when you were sixteen. I had forgotten for a moment that Mary was only two years younger than I was.

She sullenly ordered a turkey sandwich on pumpernickel and an orange soda, and I studied the menu a little longer while she went back to pouting. I mostly ignored her, focusing instead on the listed ingredients in the chili. Something had been niggling at the back of my brain for a while now, and I couldn't quite figure out what it was; it was irritating.

"That's so odd," I mused, and her angry eyes were on me again.

"Pumpernickel isn't _so_ odd," she countered, and I shook my head.

"No, not your strange taste in bread, I mean something's really bugging me about something the fourth man we spoke to said."

"If I'm not mistaken, something seems to be bugging you all the time, Mr. Congeniality," she replied, and then thanked the woman behind the counter as her orange soda was delivered.

Still ignoring her, I ordered the chili, against my better judgment. I was not, however, feeling quite so intrepid as to try the coffee. The waitress slid me a glass of ice water, and I left Mary waiting for a moment longer before turning to her and gently waving one hand for emphasis.

"The fourth guy we talked to, the one with the plaid shirt and the--"

"I really don't need to recall all your compulsive details, detective," she said, glancing away when her sandwich arrived and pulling it closer to her. "What'd he _say?"_ she asked, chewing thoughtfully on the pickle that had accompanied her lunch.

"Wesker," I said; "he mentioned someone named Wesker." I pulled the little memo pad from the pocket of my coat and flipped through a few pages to the notes I'd taken that morning. "Here it is. Wesker. He's a guy who runs a gambling ring and a couple of sleazy pawn shops up near where Boston meets 95."

"And?" She plucked the olive-adorned toothpick from the top of her sandwich and handed it to me. I found myself momentarily surprised that she still remembered something so trivial as the fact that I liked olives.

Popping the olive into my mouth, I continued, "I've heard that name before."

_"And?"_ I really wished she wouldn't talk with her mouth full.

"I can't remember where."

"Way to go, Sherlock."

My chili arrived. One glance at it told me I'd made the wrong decision. I took another sip of water and got up from my seat to head for the door.

"Wh--hey! Vergil, where are you going?" Mary threw one hand in the air like she was hailing a cab, and sort of waved it at me.

"Back to the station house to find out why I know that name," I said, and pushed the door open and head back to the valet lot where I'd left my car. A moment later she came running up behind me, a takeaway box in one hand, her drink and a covered styrofoam cup of my chili in the other, a plastic spoon caught in her pinkie. I had no idea how she was actually carrying all of that in the same hand without dropping it.

"You could have at least paid for your own damn food," she complained. "Leaving a lady to pay your bill is bad form."

"Then I guess you just earned yourself a cup of chili," I said, pulling the valet stub out of my pocket along with my keys. I needed to dig a little deeper in this Wesker character--something told me he was going to be just the break we needed.

* * *

"Your desk looks like nobody works here."

Mary was polishing off her sandwich as I went through the files in the bottom drawer of my desk, looking for any sign of the name Wesker or the gambling and pawn tycoon up north. 

"I prefer to keep my desk neat," I replied tersely. "I'm sorry you disapprove of organization."

"I don't," she said; she was talking with her mouth full again. "I just think you're a neatnik, and I figured I'd bring it to your attention."

"I appreciate being apprised of the breaking news."

The name had stuck out because that area was really in the jurisdiction of the 47th Precinct, or possibly the 45th. It was nowhere near my home area, and was almost out of the Five Boroughs completely; why did I know the man's name? Where had I seen it?

"You sure you don't want your chili?"

I lifted my head and gave her a level stare, then just went back to rifling through the files.

"Right, then, you had your chance." She spun the spoon between her fingers and pried the lid off the chili. I considered offering her a TUMS from the bottle I kept in the middle drawer, but decided against it. She'd earned her agita.

Six minutes later I had reached the end of the files with no luck, and I kicked the drawer closed with a snarl.

"Why isn't it _here?"_ I stood over the desk a moment, my hands planted firmly on the edge as I glowered at the big calendar I had written all of my appointments and case numbers for the current month on. "I _know_ I've heard that name before."

"Would you chill out?" Mary waved the spoon at me. "Maybe it wasn't one of your cases."

"I don't have a partner," I said, shaking my head. "The only other person I would have any significant joint investigations with is the ca--"

The captain.

Spinning away from the desk, I strode to the far side of the room and reached for the door to the captain's office. All of the files he kept in there would have to be reorganized and redistributed anyway; there was no reason to leave them untouched. There was no reason to feel like I shouldn't go through that door. Something about being in the captain's office once after his death, however, left a heavy film over my conscience, like I was trespassing.

I pushed through the door anyway.

Everything was just how he had left it when he'd headed out last night. ... Had it really been just last night? Somehow it seemed like it had been days ago. I rounded his desk and dropped to a crouch by the file drawer, tugging it open and flipping through the files. I was a bit dismayed to find that they appeared to be in no particular order.

A few minutes of digging, however, and I'd found what I needed. There it was: Wesker, no additional name given. Pawnbroker, loan shark, gambler, and all around slimeball, believed to be based out of the 47th Precinct area, suspected gang ties. I recalled now that the captain had taken a special interest in this guy--he didn't usually go out on field investigations himself, but whenever anything about this Wesker fellow came across the desks, he insisted on following up personally.

I found myself wondering if Wesker hadn't taken a bit of offense to that and finally decided to put an end to it. There was only one way to find out.

Rising and bracing one hand on the desk, I was startled to notice that Mary had joined me in the office at some point. She was standing, silent, before the captain's bookshelf, her eyes on the small collection of personal effects he had kept there: a commemorative paperweight for ten years of service, a fancy letter opener in the shape of a sword, an old family photo. Mary had only been about twelve in that picture.

She lifted her hand to touch the frame, and I just watched her for a moment. Then I said, "I'm sorry." I paused. "For your loss," I clarified, as if there was anything else to express condolences for.

She looked at me, her expression unreadable, then looked back at the photo.

"I wonder sometimes," she mused, "whether or not I really knew Jonathan Arkham."

I furrowed my brow and shook my head. "He was your father," I said, a little bemused by her words. Her gaze was piercing.

"I knew my _father,"_ she said, and then shook her head, turning away from the bookshelf, "but I don't think I knew Jonathan Arkham at all."

I watched her leave the office, something raw and aching in her movements, like she was trying not to limp through cold bruises, and when my eyes strayed back to the bookshelf, I frowned. The photo had been turned face down.


	3. Chapter 3

Mary became a staple around the precinct house after that. My mornings really weren't complete until she'd complained about the coffee several times and asked why my breakfast consisted of rye toast and cantaloupe instead of donuts.

"Cops are supposed to eat donuts," she said in the same tone she reminded me every morning, chewing on a swizzle stick and picking absently at her bear claw.

"Donuts are nothing but fried dough coated in sugar," I said in the same tone I reminded her every morning, pulling at the string on the teabag in my mug and pointedly not looking at her. "They're terrible for your cholesterol and I'm convinced they are the reason such a large percentage of the police force is incapable of pursuing their targets on foot."

She made a keening noise and shook her head fiercely. "You are just all work and no play, aren't you, Vergil?" she chuckled, sitting back in the chair she insisted on parking in front of my desk and crossing her legs. "Do you even know _how_ to relax?"

I lifted my head from the case file and stared at her for a moment longer than was necessary. "I don't have time to relax," I said then, and she rolled her eyes. I went back to my file.

Wesker's gambling ring was mostly off the radar, but there was a good chance he owned several of the sleazy pawn shops south of the freeway in the 45th Precinct area. So all we needed to do now was plant someone at each of those places to see what we could find.

I saw Mary shift in my peripheral vision, and she reached forward, plucking something from the edge of my desk. "This is a nice photo," she said, and I glanced up.

"Hm?" She turned the frame in her hand so I could see the picture, and something squelched in my stomach. I kept that photo turned away from me for a reason. "Oh." I went back to the files, jotting a note in the margin with a red pen.

She waited a moment, then huffed an impatient sigh. "It's your family, isn't it?" she asked.

"Was," I corrected, still not looking at her, and she was quiet for another blessed fifteen seconds. She knew my parents were dead, why was this surprising to her?

She hesitated, and I heard her breath hitch briefly before she finally asked, "Is this your brother?"

The pen stilled, but I didn't look at her, and I just breathed for a moment before I set the pen down and sat back in my chair.

"I don't have a brother," I said, and she tilted her head gesturing at the picture again.

"But this kid looks like he could be your twi--"

"He's dead."

Her jaw closed with an audible click, and her eyes lingered on mine just long enough to be uncomfortable. It was like she was searching my face for something that wasn't there.

"I... I'm sorry," she said, shaking her head, and I sat forward again, retrieving the pen and going back to my notes.

"Don't be," I replied. "It's his own damn fault."

"That's a terrible thing to say," she scolded. "He's your brother--he deserves better than that." I thumped my fist on the desk.

"I worked my ass off and graduated high school a year early, and he dropped out against my advice," I said. "I went off to college in England for three years, I wrote home every two weeks, and my letters were never answered. Not one." I stared her down, the tendons in my neck taut and quivering, though I didn't raise my voice. "When I came home, I went back to the house in the Hamptons and found it robbed, empty, and visibly untouched for at least six months. There was a pile of unopened letters just inside the door." My face twitched with contempt. _"My_ letters," I said, and my lip curled a bit as I scoffed derisively and my eyes moved back to the papers in front of me. "I was dead to my brother _long_ before he died, despite my best efforts to do right by him, so don't presume to tell me what that bastard deserves."

I wasn't sure how long it was quiet after that, and it wasn't until there was the click of Mary's boot on the floor to break the silence as she leaned forward that I realized I'd been hunching my shoulders and clenching my teeth all that time. She put the photo back on the edge of the desk. I could feel her eyes on me.

"I'm sorry," she said again, and it was all I could do not to start ranting again. My brother... bah. Dante had been my identical twin, but I doubted we could have been less alike if we'd tried. He had been boisterous and unsinkable to my stoic and sensible. He had been flash and flair to my understated and practical. He had been a reckless, impetuous fool, and it had gotten him killed, and I...

My shoulders sagged a little.

I didn't miss him one damn bit.

My notes in the margin were heavy, dark bold lines now, the tip of the pen pressing hard against the paper.

"What's this?"

I glanced up then when Mary's voice interrupted my silent fuming again, and gave her an impatient look. "What's what?"

"There's something written on the back of the frame," she said, and twisted the back of the photo to me again. I reached for it and ran my fingertips over the words scrawled into the wood of the back of the frame. It was my father's handwriting--crisp, sharp lines and clean angles. I had forgotten about that.

I handed the frame back to her.

"It's in Italian," I said, and Mary set the frame down again and folded her arms.

"So what does it say?" she asked.

"Do I look like I speak Italian?"

"Your last name is Zavattoni."

I just sort of growled at her infuriatingly irrefutable logic. "I don't feel like translating," I said. "I'm kind of busy."

"Fine, fine, forget it," she sighed. "I guess if you really don't know--"

"It's none of your damn business," I snapped, and she rolled her eyes. I hated giving her the satisfaction of knowing she had hit a nerve, but it really _wasn't_ any of her business, any more than my brother and the photo itself were. Why was she so nosy? Why did she even care?

I had put the tip of my pen through the paper. I got to my feet, my movements tight and my lips pressed together: a thin, grim line across my face. 

"Where are you going?" Mary asked, turning in her chair as I stalked toward the door.

"To get donuts," I said.

"I thought you didn't eat donuts."

"I don't." I yanked the door open and looked at her. "They're to shut you up."

And with that I slammed the door behind me.

* * *

Wesker was a difficult man to find. After putting surveillance teams on several of his alleged pawn shops south of 95 and monitoring known gambling rings on the northern side of the highway, we finally caught wind of his movements. Within a week, we had a good idea of where his next poker night, as it were, would be held.

Mary had been chomping at the bit the whole time. She was so childish sometimes; I almost felt as though I needed to keep her on a leash so she wouldn't just run off and blow the whole operation out of some need for revenge that outweighed her ability to think rationally. Thankfully, it seemed she was capable of reining in her enthusiasm long enough to wait for a clear shot, but as soon as we had the time and address we believed Wesker would be at, she was off like she'd been fired from one of her own guns.

Grabbing her arm as she rounded the side of my car, I tugged, arresting her movement.

"Mary, wait." She turned and looked at me, her face pulled in something between irritation and desperation, and I shook my head. "Don't do anything stupid," I said, and she wrenched her arm away.

"I'm not a _child,"_ she snapped, baring her teeth again. "I'm not going to just charge in and blow everything now when we're this close."

I stepped back and lifted my palms, attempting to placate her a bit. "You've been charging ever since we figured out Wesker was our connection," I reminded her. "I thought you were going to suffer an intracerebral hemorrhage during the stakeouts."

She blinked, as if it took her a moment to actually process what I'd said, and then went back to glowering. "I don't like stakeouts."

"I noticed."

She tried to pull the car door open, but it was still locked, and this prompted more scowling in my direction. "Can we go now?" she asked.

"You have to swear you're not going to lose your head over this," I said. "We're close."

"Whaddya want me to do, cross my heart and hope to die?" she asked, folding her arms beneath her bosom. She still wasn't wearing a coat, and her shirt was still open too far to be appropriate. "I promise, okay? I'll behave."

Satisfied for the moment, I pressed the button on my keys and unlocked the car. She yanked the door open and slid into the passenger seat, still looking peeved. Closing my door after me, I turned the car on and adjusted the heater.

"Don't ever do that," I said then as I reached for my seat belt, and she tilted her head a little, her hands frozen over her own seat belt like she expected it was booby trapped.

"Huh?"

I threw the car into reverse and backed out of the parking space, turning onto the main road. I heard Mary click her seat belt into place; she was still looking at me.

"Don't ever what?" she asked again, and I glanced at her sidelong.

"Hope to die."

* * *

Friday, 11November, 23:08:52  
Tiemann Avenue and Boston Avenue, The Bronx, NY

"Why would anyone run a poker game out of a shop called Vital Stars?" I wondered aloud as I stepped out of the car. The wind was biting, sharp as any blade as it swept across the side of my face. I didn't understand how Mary wasn't freezing.

She slammed the door and I cringed--didn't she know how bad that was for the car? Her eyes slid up the building facade and then she shrugged.

"I guess nobody's gonna suspect a health nut place to house a gambling ring," she said. She took a moment to make sure all of her guns were in their appropriate holsters. I didn't know why she felt the need to have so many; at any given time she seemed to have at least five pistols and a compact rifle on her person. Checking the clip in her favorite custom Glock, she leaned her arms on the roof of the car and lifted her eyebrows. "So what's our next move, chief?"

I turned as three unmarked squad cars pulled into the parking lot, then glanced back at Mary. Backup had arrived; it was time to crash the party.

The shop had closed at 9pm, and it was now just past eleven, but Mary was a top-notch lockpick on top of all of her other unusual skills. I wondered sometimes why she had chosen to become a cop, to be honest. She had all the makings of a supreme thorn in my side (not that she wasn't either way) and yet she had turned to the side of justice. Maybe she was following in her father's footsteps, or maybe she just liked doing illegal things on the state's payroll, but whatever it was, I was almost a little reluctant to admit just how handy she was to have around sometimes.

There was no alarm--not that it mattered. We _were_ the police--and as we moved silently into the darkened store, it appeared at first that there was quite literally nothing going on. The shelves were pristinely fronted, the counters were clean, and the tile floors shone. It was arguably the cleanest establishment I had encountered in the Bronx yet. We knew Wesker was here, though; there was no doubt about it. We fanned out between the lines of shelves that made the thin aisles of the store, and then regrouped near the far wall.

"All clear," one of the reinforcements said, and three others agreed. "He's not here."

"Oh, he's here all right," Mary's voice floated, hushed, through the still air. Glancing down, I spotted her crouched behind the counter, shoving a heavy traction rug aside with her boot. Beneath the rug was a barely-visible door in the floor, a thin metal handle folded into the faux tile. She lifted her head and grinned. "You want the honors?"

"Ladies first," I replied with a roll of my eyes. She'd found the door; she could go first if she wanted.

She carefully lifted the handle and gave the trap door an experimental tug. It lifted easily, and she folded it back, resting it silently against the floor. There was a darkened stairway beneath the door, and I found myself thinking that this was almost painfully cliche. Wasting no time, Mary clutched one gun in each hand and started down the stairs. I followed, the backup team moving behind me.

The staircase was long, made of stone, narrow and dank. One of the men behind me had a flashlight, and shone it forward and onto the ceiling, illuminating the stairs just enough that we didn't all stumble and end up in a tangled pile of broken limbs at the bottom. I counted 24 steps down, meaning we were nearly two stories beneath the shop itself. Was this some sort of old bunker? A bomb shelter? Admittedly, there were many things I didn't know about this area, nor did I really care to; I supposed that a secret underground bunker was an ideal place to hold an illegal poker game, in any case.

Stairs gave way to a hall, and the flashlight beam moved, circling what appeared to be a strip of gold at the end of the corridor: the line of light beneath a door. Mary had paused, and glanced at me as if to ask permission. It was dark, but there was sass in her eyes, as always. I nodded my head, then signaled the men behind me to move forward. We flanked the door, and I swept one hand out to invite Mary to kick it down. That was her favorite part, if I recalled correctly.

She counted down on her fingers--3, 2, 1!--and then snapped up one leg and kicked the door in with a loud clatter.

"Freeze, police!" she shouted, spreading her arms, her guns pointed in two directions. "Nobody move."

For half an instant, nobody moved. At a glance, I counted maybe two dozen people in the room, mostly men and a handful of whores, seated at mismatched tables, cards in their hands and multicolored chips scattered across the tabletops. Every pair of eye turned to us, startled, genuinely surprised.

The moment of quiet was over almost before it began, though, and there was a sudden wave of movement, and then the clicking of about twenty guns being cocked. We didn't waste time. Half the men from the reinforcement team had swarmed past me as the first shot was fired, and I spun, drawing my sword and using it to slice the rounded edge off the nearest table, kicking it onto its side to duck behind it as bullets flew all around me. My colleagues always chided me for inevitably bringing a sword to gun fights, but I rarely found myself hindered by the tilted odds.

Pandemonium was expected in cases like this: the bad guys were surprised, they tried to flee, and it was a free-for-all as they did anything and everything they could to escape, but I wasn't going to let it happen. One of these bastards had killed my captain, Mary's father, and they weren't going to get away with it.

The table shook as someone crashed into it, and I straightened, driving the pommel of my blade into a startled man's face, effectively breaking his nose and sending him reeling. Twisting, I slammed the back of the blade into another man's ribs as he tried to rush past me, easily breaking two and probably fracturing several more. I swept my leg out to trip a prostitute with blond hair that was as fake as her breasts, and as she stumbled forward I snapped my knee up to catch her in the gut. She pitched to the floor like a sack of wet sand, wheezing and semiconscious.

So it went. We were outnumbered, but efficient. Shots were fired, but so far as I could tell we hadn't taken any casualties. I spotted Mary standing on a table, watched her fire a shot at a man's feet and then kick him in the jaw as he reached for her. She whirled and dropped to a crouch as someone shot at her head; the bullet ricocheted off the stone ceiling and she twisted to the side as it bounced back and struck another man in the shoulder. Someone grabbed her by the ankle, and she neatly shot one of his fingers off without even grazing her boot.

In the instant I had taken to acknowledge her skills, however, it seemed I had left myself open. I felt the air shift beside me, heard the cock of a gun, and I spun, reflexively snapping my sword arm up. Providing the assailant wasn't significantly shorter than I was, my forearm would strike the underside of his, throwing off the shot and theoretically putting him off-balance, at which point I would drive the pommel of my sword into his celiac plexus. This would send a paroxysm of mixed pain signals to his brain and would likely take him to his knees. Once there, I would drop my elbow to the back of his neck, rendering him unconscious and neutralizing the threat.

I got as far as striking the underside of his forearm.

As I twisted, I saw a flash of eggshell white--the barrel of a custom pistol, I assumed, since no mainstream guns I had seen were that color--and the impact of ulna against ulna sent a shock through my arm. The gun didn't fire, the assailant's aim was blown, but he didn't seem to be thrown off balance. Easily rectified; I hated to resort to hitting below the belt--it was so uncouth--but I needed the guy _down._ I saw a swirl of red as the long coat he was wearing shifted with the abrupt cessation of his forward motion, and shifted to snap my knee up.

That was when I saw the man's face.

It was like looking in a mirror.

... It was like looking in a mirror that made you look scruffy, disheveled, a bit sleep-deprived, and gave you half a day's worth of stubble, but a mirror nonetheless. The man's hair was the same blanched silver as mine, his eyes the same ice-blue. His gaze met mine and widened in surprise the same way mine did, his brow crinkling together and his jaw sliding slightly ajar as recognition swept across his face.

I felt my jaw move soundlessly, a name forming, unbidden, on my tongue. There was no mistaking it: this man was my brother.

_Dante._   



	4. Chapter 4

It was one of those things you never really put much thought into until it smacked you in the face. All the crime dramas on T.V. had nothing on the real thing; cop coffee tasted like chalk from a drain pipe. It didn't matter how much sugar you added to it, nothing could get rid of the total lack of _anything_ tasty about it. Of course that didn't stop me from downing the whole thing--when you get dragged by your ear downtown in the middle of the night, even a cup of sludge was a welcome boost of caffeine.

I'd never worn cuffs before--well, nothing that another guy put on, anyway--and made a show of rubbing my wrists when they finally came off. Some short little brunette, who I was pretty sure was actually a woman, shoved me down in a metal folding chair that creaked a little too suspiciously for my taste. The cup of would-be coffee was slammed down in front of me and she was out as quickly as she had entered, leaving me in the box.

Now, I wasn't claustrophobic by any means, but a solid room with no windows was enough to make anyone feel like a prisoner. It didn't matter if I deserved it or not--which I did--it was the principle of the thing, you know? If they wanted my cooperation, a little breeze would have been nice. I knew that the mirror in front of me only posed to be one from my end. This would be a party for a voyeur.

So it was just me, my styrofoam cup of muddy water, and my thoughts; the latter of the group definitely wasn't invited. It was like that friend who somehow found every party you went to even if you did your best to never mention a thing. That feeling of dread as they waved at you from across the room, you ducked your head and pretend you don't see, but inevitably had to offer a 'Hey, Brian!' with a fake grin. You hoped you could ditch them somewhere, but you were still stuck with them until then. That was me and the topics I knew I didn't want to bridge, having made a point of _not_ thinking about them for years.

That was the point of leaving, wasn't it?

I threw my feet up on the table, letting the dirt from my boots collect on the metal as I reclined back in the chair, pushing it on its back two legs. I'd always wondered if I would finally get busted, but this honestly wasn't the way I'd imagined it. Getting thrown out of a poker game was one thing, but to get arrested by my own brother? Screwed up was an understatement. I hadn't seen him in years, but that was how I wanted it.

So much for that.

With a sigh, I stretched my arms over my head, trying my best to look bored. If anything, I sure wasn't going to give all the badges on the other side of the two-way get the impression they had me on anything. Considering I just happened to be at the scene, I figured they didn't.

I took a gulp of the coffee and immediately regretted my decision. They thought _gambling_ was a crime? Whoever manufactured this crap was pulling one over on a lot more people than I ever had. Where was the justice in that?

Waving to the mirror, I motioned someone--anyone--forward. "Coffee's kind of stale, chief. Got any sugar or honey?"

The creak of the door signaled the impending doom, but nothing could beat a good verbal lashing from kin.

"I figured we would save the sugar for when you try and sweet-talk your way out of this," Vergil said, "but if you want to use your lifeline as an attempt to ameliorate the poor excuse for coffee you were given I'll see what I can scare up for you."

Ahh, Vergil. He was always so good at reminding me that I was the black sheep of the family. The fact that he couldn't even face me head-on was just annoying, but I had been pretty good at faking it. I could feel him draw closer behind me, his shoes clicking heavily on the floor as he all but paced like an impatient parent past the back of my chair. It was some sort of inherent intimidation tactic by law enforcement, I was sure, but he would have to do a lot more than that to get a rise out of me.

At least he agreed that the coffee sucked.

I tilted my head and leaned back further in the chair, resting my hands on my chest. He looked just as cranky upside down.

I grinned. "How about a kiss for your little brother?"

The look on his face was priceless. That same disapproving scowl I'd seen when he saw that the week's grocery list had been forgotten in lieu of a floor to ceiling stereo system for the living room drew his eyebrows forward. He was older--we both were--but the narrowing of his eyes and the slight twitch of deep-seated resentment at the right corner of his mouth were just the same.

He did me the favor of breaking my observation when he kicked the feet out from under my chair. I'd taken a lot of hits in my day, but having your back slam into the solid cement floor only to have your fall broken by rusty steel wasn't a pleasant experience. Pain shot through my shoulders as I glared upward to see Vergil moving to the other end of the table.

Yeah, get out of the line of fire. He knew I was a better shot, anyway.

"And here I thought we were dropping the _formalities_." I rolled off to the side, straightening up my metallic savior of a chair and plopping back down. It hurt like hell, but I didn't want him to think he had the upper hand in anything.

"I hardly think there's anything formal about hanging out with loan sharks and prostitutes," he said plainly, "but you always did have a significantly lower bar for these things." My eyes narrowed at that, but I didn't drop the smile. "So I'll tell you what; I'll promise to cut out any future formalities if you'll cut the crap and answer my questions like a good boy."

"Sorry, _chief_ ," I started, throwing my feet up on the table again. His brow twitched like before. "Afraid I don't have anything to say to overpaid, stuffy cops. I mean, what is that--a cravat? Since when'd we take a trip back to the 18th century?"

"Actually, it's an ascot."

Throwing my hands back behind my head, I nodded to the mirror. "How about that chick you were with? I've got a few things to say to her."

Vergil didn't even flinch. "Unfortunately for you, my partner has standards."

Neither did I. "Really? That's funny--why's she working with you, then?"

His hand hit the table with an audible smack, pokerface still intact. He had always been the serious, upstanding one: perfect grades, extremely punctual. His side of the room had been immaculate--hell, when we moved to Virginia, he'd put a strip of tape down the center of our bedroom to separate his side from mine. (I was pretty sure he'd given himself an extra inch or two, too.) The forever unmovable Vergil; but I knew how to get under his skin. It was a work in progress.

"Because it's her job," he said stiffly. "Not that you understand anything about being employed, judging by the state of your clothes and personal hygiene." 

Now, that was just mean. I'd showered earlier that morning. Besides, finely pressed shirts and waistcoats said more about an outdated sense of style than good hygiene. I just liked my clothing to feel lived-in. 

"Is that why you decided to throw your lot in with Wesker?" he asked.

I scoffed, dropping my hands to my lap. "I told you, I don't have anything to say." I wasn't stupid. He was my brother, estranged as he was, but he was still a cop. I didn't owe him anything and he didn't owe me jack in return.

He took a moment and we simply locked eyes. If it was a battle of wills, he ceded, but only so that he could pull forward a decidedly _less_ painful-looking chair to sit in. (Where had that come from?) Leaning forward with his elbows on the table, he threaded his fingers together, giving me the perfect image of some hard-boiled cop, or whatever it was he figured he was. I looked away, knocking some dirt from the sole of one boot with the other.

"Nothing to say? After all these years?" I could feel his eyes narrow on me. "Well, what about Tony Redgrave? Does he have anything to say to me?" He tilted his head a little. "Surely he isn't carrying around your filial grudges."

I rolled my head lazily towards him. That was a name he shouldn't have known--someone must have snitched me out in another room. _Great_. Well, sometimes the police knowing who you were and not being able to do a single thing about it raised a bit of notoriety in some of the circles I frequented.

"Sounds like you know everything, don't you?" I dropped my own feet from the table this time, instead copying his posture but not mirroring his scowl. I smirked. "Then I'm sure you know that it's hard to get information from a guy that doesn't exist."

That brow twitch came back, though I couldn't tell if it was the pain of an incoming headache or simple contempt for my lack of cooperation.

"It _is_ pretty hard to get information from a guy who doesn't exist..." he said. "Sometimes I feel like that's all my job consists of, you know?" Oh, a sob story. _That_ was a new angle from him. Vergil gestured to the window, then the door. I followed quietly with my eyes, but looked bored when they met his again. "Everyone I talk to has more than one name, everyone insists they have nothing to hide, nothing to say, nothing they can be held on."

Actually, it was pretty much the opposite, but he would never really understand. It was always the overwhelming fear and realization that they _had_ something on you, but like hell anyone really wanted to sit and have tea with law enforcement. Cops were liars, everyone knew that, and they would tell you that they had evidence even if all they had was that bad coffee that was sitting sitting a few feet away from me. They acted like they knew, and we acted like we didn't--it was all part of the dance some liked to think should be called 'justice'.

I thought it was a pain.

He threaded his fingers together again as I crossed my arms. "So what's it like not to exist, Dante? You even fooled your big brother into thinking you were _dead_ for five years."

Oh.

That was a blow that hit a little lower than it should have. Despite my best efforts, I could feel my own eyebrows raise at the admission, and his narrowing gaze wasn't helping any building discomfort. The air was suddenly thick with the stink of betrayal, but I wasn't going to let him win on that alone. I had no idea what he thought--even though it wasn't my intention to fake my death--but frankly, I didn't care. No, even on the nights that I found myself on the doorstep of our parent's house, I didn't care. Knowing full well that he was half a world away, going down the same path that _he_ did, just for the sake of tradition or whatever it was he found in pouring over our father's old books. Yeah, I knew he was going even before graduation. Who left who?

It didn't matter at that point, anyway. I'd put that part of my life behind me. But that didn't stop him from twisting the proverbial knife when he could. I really couldn't blame him, though--I would have done the same thing.

"I bet you're just pleased as punch about that, aren't you?"

"I'm _ecstatic_." My voice was flat, eyes challenging his. I might as well have been dead. Dante Zavattoni was a name that had died with high school. He still existed, he just didn't do much of anything. I hunched my shoulders forward, closing the distance between us considerably; close enough to invade is overly large area of personal space, but far enough that he couldn't complain. "That's funny, though; at least Mom got a funeral."

The force he used to slam his fist into the table that time actually broke my grin, just for a second. Vergil shoved against the table, pushing himself back and scraping the uncovered feet of the chair against the floor. He was on his feet again, pacing. It wasn't the same domineering pacing he'd had when he walked in--it was nervous energy. I was getting to him.

"That requires a _body_ , Dante," he said, his words almost clumsy. "I wasn't going to have a funeral for an empty coffin!"

And he was getting to me, too. Dammit.

"Guess that wouldn't go along with your perverted sense of justice, huh?" I knew that was kind of a jerk thing to say, but like hell was I going to have that conversation in an interrogation room. I was fed up with law enforcement in the recent years; the fact that they hadn't been able to name a single person or reason as to how or why Mom had been killed hadn't helped then, either. As far as I was concerned, justice was an ideal, nothing more. "Here I thought cops liked finishing up cases even if they got the wrong perp. You could've found someone else to fill in."

Vergil didn't waste a second. Standing next to me, he pointed sharply at the two-way mirror and hissed, "Mary, kill the speaker. Now." 

Oh, I knew it was on, then. He was much closer than he would normally like to be, but I figured it was to make a point we both knew I wouldn't accept. He turned back to me and put his hands down on the table. I just stared him down.

"You always had more of a penchant for the perverse than I did," he said. "Contrary to popular belief, some cops actually do their jobs because they _want_ to catch the right guy. Some of us leave case files open for _years_ because we're looking for the right guy, but nobody ever hears about those cops, they only hear about the ones making the rest of us look bad."

I wrinkled my nose at his speech, picking some non-existant lint off my leather jacket. I didn't want a lecture, even if that's all he ever felt fit to provide. Boring.

"So, you bring down the infamous Wesker and hope to get brownie points sending anyone seen with him to the can, is that it?" In all honesty, Wesker wasn't worth a minute of time. He wasn't the reason I had been there; it was the money. The guy was a first class douchebag, the kind of guy you wanted to scrape off the bottom of your shoe before you stepped inside. I couldn't stand him, but I really wasn't in the position to turn down an opportunity to help lessen the debt bounty on my own head.

If they convicted him, then good for them. But I wasn't going to incriminate myself.

"I brought in the infamous Wesker because someone killed my captain, and we have reason to believe that he was involved in it somehow," Vergil said. 

"Well, _good_ luck to you." I was sticking to my guns, as they say, even though those had been confiscated. That part actually really pissed me off; the two girls I knew I could always trust were Ebony and Ivory. I knew every scratch, each bit of powder residue--I was going to know if they'd been tampered with. Even more reason for me to stay out of it, though Vergil wasn't going to understand. "But you can ask anyone and you'll know that Tony Redgrave isn't ready for a buddy-buddy relationship with the police _or_ with Wesker. Get it?"

"I'm not after you, Dante. Believe it or not, not everything revolves around you." There was quite a bit of contempt hanging off that last statement, though he didn't bother to increase the distance between us. "To be honest, I would have been happy to keep on believing you were dead. Instead I'm saddled with the knowledge that my little brother is a complete delinquent dabbling in drugs, debauchery, and who knows what else?"

Against my better judgment, I had to just smile at that. What else _indeed_? Yeah, it was something I shouldn't have been proud of, but I was damn good at what I did, even if he was never going to see or understand it. In my own way, I did a much better job than he did, that was for sure.

"So why don't you make this a little easier on _both_ of us and just tell me what you do know about Wesker, buddy-buddy or otherwise?"

I found an actual piece of lint on my jeans and picked it off. "What's in it for me, huh? So far all I've gotten out of this is a sore shoulder and coffee that I'll probably throw back up in an hour."

"Your inability to keep your stomach contents where they belong is your own prerogative." His deadpan would have almost been funny if I wasn't seriously under the threat of stomach poisoning. Maybe they did it on purpose. "If you're asking for a deal, however, I could tell you that keeping your nose clean works wonders for keeping you out of the NYPD's hair, but I've got the sneaking suspicion you wouldn't listen."

I didn't want to dignify that with a response, as they say, so instead I picked a chunk of earwax out with my pinkie, flicking it off to the side. Vergil almost looked pale for a moment, like it took him a lot of pain and effort to look away from the offending wax. He sighed. 

"Fine, then. If you give me relevant information that I can use to pin Wesker to the wall--or, alternatively, point me in the direction of who is responsible for Jonathan Arkham's murder--you'll be fined for possession of unregistered weapons and you're off the hook." 

I narrowed my eyes at that; _no_ one blackmailed me with my own girls, least of all my own flesh and blood (what little was left of it). Vergil seemed to know he'd just gained the upper-hand and had no problem flaunting it in that too-subtle way he had. He straightened up, hands clasped behind his back. I just glared.

"If you'd rather be uncooperative, however," he went on, "I can drag this out for a nice long time and you can rot in jail as accessory to illegal gambling, grand larceny, and armed assault, all of which are open files that can be traced back to the location from which you were recovered."

I guessed that was what came back to bite you in the ass if you didn't do your work beforehand. He knew some sort of Super Supplements place was too _good_ a hiding place; they always searched those first.

He had me. At least I was one to go down with a smile in style.

So that's what I did--I smiled. It wasn't amiable or pleased, or even remotely clenched, it was the textbook definition of a smile and not one anyone gave to someone they genuinely liked. He didn't return it.

"Wesker's a jerk," I said matter-of-factly, leaning back in the chair. He took out a little notebook (from where, I have no idea) and waited with pen in hand, taking a seat across from me. "This is the first time I met him in person, but everyone knows who he is. He's got more girls on his arm than a Persian Prince and enough cash up his ass to keep them all quiet." 

I really didn't like the sound of the guy and face-to-face really hadn't changed it at all. But he had what I wanted; money. That was really all I could afford to care about.

"But as much of an asshole as he is, he's not the type of guy to dirty his hands--he's got too many connections for that. If you put out the money, anyone'll come." It was what ran the underground and, frankly, the rest of the world too. It was a sucky realization to come to, but that was how it went. I'd never been a good liar, anyway--I preferred to be an honest jerk. "If you're looking for a hit-man, might wanna make a lunch appointment near Gleason and Tayler. If he puts out a job, that's where he likes to meet them." I didn't feel bad ratting out any of these guys; they deserved to be caught. And to be honest? It'd lessen my own debt. But Vergil didn't need to know that.

I just _really_ wanted my girls back.

I sat quietly, watching him with a frown as he finished crossing his T's and dotting the I's. When we were younger, I always told him he wrote like a girl--much too neatly. Somehow I doubted that had changed at all. Despite being forced into a corner, I felt okay over all.

That is, until he opened his mouth again.

"See, now... that wasn't so hard, was it?"

Oh, that was _it_. I'd done the dance, I played the stupid game, I _drank the coffee_ , and there he went acting like I was five all over again. It never mattered how old we got; I was always the baby and he never let me forget it.

"Not hard at all," I said with a grin that I had to force into place. Elbow on the table, I rested my cheek on my knuckles, casting him a sidelong glance. He looked entirely too pleased with himself right then, the slight raise of his eyebrows and the lack of the normal worry lines told me so. I needed to take him off that pedestal. "Must be an easy job when you just threaten people to do the work for you."

That small smile of his faded; it was one of things you had to know him well enough to notice. "I don't believe I threatened you at all; I cut you a deal, didn't I? You were the one who chose to associate himself with criminals."

I snorted. "Some _deal_." As if I didn't have enough to pay off as it was. That was the only reason I got involved with guys like Wesker. Well, that and I did enjoy a game of poker now and then. "Yeah, you're right, I'm scum of the earth. But you know, I _seem_ to remember my big brother flying over to Europe and cutting me off. At least these guys show me a good time."

Neutral went to angry in a nanosecond. He didn't raise his voice, but there was a rumble that wasn't normally there. "You really think that's what happened? You think I left and put a hold on the funds to _punish_ you?" He was on his feet again, his arms folded. "Come on, Dante, I know you're not actually that stupid. I got a full scholarship to Oxford--the oldest university in the English-speaking world! You expected me to throw that away because you flunked half your courses and dropped out?"

Academics. That's all it ever seemed to be about. Books and grades and whatever glorified boner you could get from having a degree that said someone thought you knew something. What did a piece of paper like that show other than you spent a good portion of your prime years behind a desk, reading about the world instead of experiencing it for yourself? Not a thing. Not a damn thing.

I laughed.

"See! That's exactly it!" Slamming my hand down on the table, I pushed myself away, but didn't get up, instead taking to leaning back in the chair again. "High school was a waste of time--a _waste_ of time. I didn't learn a thing other than sucking up is what gets a lot of people what they want." I shook my head, sending him a disappointed glare of my own. I _was_ disappointed. I never went to his graduation, even though it was a year earlier than it should have been. People said I should have been proud.

But what was there to be proud of? Who was he showing off for? Anyone who would really care was dead. It was never about school for me. He never got that.

"Now, see, it's that hasty and irreverent attitude that always got you in trouble when we were kids." I rolled my eyes at that, he pointed the pen forward at me like a sword. "It wasn't a waste of time-- _look_ at you! Look at how far you've gotten without that useless education! You're a real model citizen, aren't you?"

Like hell I was a model citizen, but when was the last time he took a look around? One would think a cop was someone that would see the devil in every corner. He may not have known, but I was doing my fair share of justice, too.

"I didn't expect you to be a genius with a Ph.D or a first class detective--" Or whatever he called himself. "I _expected_ you to be my _brother_."

He moved much more quickly than I could ever remember him moving. Suddenly the chair was on the ground and I was on my feet, eyes widening as a face that was much too similar to my own encompassed my vision. His fists were wrinkling my already wrinkled shirt, my shoulder making an unpleasant cracking noise as it hit the cinderblock wall. The Bad Cop routine really suited him, was what I wanted to say, but his expression cut me off.

Vergil rarely lost his cool; I could count the times throughout our childhood on one hand. But there he was, baring his teeth at me like a wolf, eyes practically seeing through me and to the wall. I felt hollow for a moment, but even when I went too far, I never backed down.

The silence between us dragged on, making seconds seem like lifetimes. I don't know why I didn't raise my hands back at him--maybe some part of me felt I deserved it.

For once emotions played out on his face without hesitation, subtle as usual. His brows twisted upward in what could simply be anger, but I knew that expression all too well; he was disappointed, upset, tired. I could handle that. It was when he turned like he _couldn't_ look at me that really stuck. He let me go and spun around in a single motion.

"I could say the same thing for you," he said, his voice low and steely.

Ouch.

I tried in vain to smooth out my shirt, not at a loss for a sarcastic comeback, but I didn't toss one back. I was feeling generous. He opened the door and jerked a thumb over his shoulder back at me, addressing the person on the other side.

"Get this slimeball out of my sight. Fine him the $30K for two unregistered custom weapons, and cut him loose as soon as he pays it."

The door slammed shut.

The room was silent for a long moment. I gulped, suddenly feeling all too out of my element. That was $30,000 I didn't have, and honestly I'd dug myself a deeper grave over the years, but that was the beautiful thing about loan sharks--they didn't keep you locked up until you paid off your debt. Where the hell did he expect me to get that kind of money?

" _Ah!_ " I growled, turning to face the wall, scratching my head roughly; I knew he'd set me up. He couldn't keep me for helping out Wesker, that much was obvious, so he was going to let my ass rot anyway because he felt like waving his dick around and playing the city's hero. _Great_. Since when did my brother become such a vigilante?

Turning back around, I was faced with the two-way mirror. That was _right_ , I still had an audience. Not wanting to let my adoring fans down, I straightened up and strode over, giving whoever was on the other side--hopefully his cute partner--a charming grin and knocked.

"I'm still waiting on that sugar!"

A packet of Splenda hit me in the head just a minute later. It didn't help the coffee. Or my mood. But what could you expect from fake sugar?


	5. Chapter 5

I was ashamed to admit that adrenaline was still coursing through my veins as I stalked out of the box and headed back to my desk. It seemed that Dante could still get under my skin without really trying, regardless of how hard I worked to keep my cool. No one knew my buttons the way he did, and he _delighted_ in pushing them, often several at a time. It was as if he'd found just the right combination to irritate me to the greatest degree in the shortest amount of time, like the combo moves on those stupid video games he liked so much.

Glancing up when Mary approached my desk, her brow furrowed in something like concern, I just lifted my eyebrows.

"What?" I asked, a little more tersely than necessary.

"What was that all about?" she asked, one hand on her hip, and I sat back in my chair and folded my arms: an involuntary defensive gesture.

"What was what all about?" I knew damn well what she meant, but that wasn't the point. "I interrogated the suspect, deemed him unconnected to the situation at hand, and ordered for his release. Is that not protocol?"

She planted one hand on the edge of the desk and leaned forward, giving me that infernal view down the front of her blouse. I glanced away.

"You badgered your brother and threw him against the wall," she said. "I don't have to know what you two said to see most of it had nothing to do with the investigation." She shifted and folded her arms again, meaning it was safe to look back at her. "And you know as well as I do that $30K is excessive."

My eyes wheeled toward the ceiling. "Are you really going to lecture me about the rules, Mary? Because if that is your plan you may want to refamiliarize yourself with them." I leaned back in the chair a bit and folded my hands across my abdomen. "He has two .50 caliber assault weapons that he does not have a permit for, nor are they registered in the state of New York. Both were loaded upon confiscation, which is technically a Class C violent felony, and because they're both custom pieces, it's criminal possession in the second degree. That's a _B_ felony."

Everyone seemed to hate the way I could just rattle off textbook information, but in cases like this it was useful, not pedantic, and I wished that my colleagues paid a little more attention to detail.

"He doesn't _have_ $30,000. He said that after demanding four more packets of Splenda," she said, and I tilted my head.

"Well then I guess he'll be spending some time in the brig, won't he?" I said. "He most certainly _does_ have $30,000, he just refuses to tap into his inherited funds. That isn't my problem." I shrugged one shoulder and craned my neck to work a knot out of it. "Maybe after spending a few days in jail he'll wisen up."

Unlikely.

"So, wait, you're really going to convict your brother of two felonies?" she asked, shaking her head. "Are you really that heartless?"

"I could get him on false personation and round everything off with a Class B misdemeanor as well, but I'm feeling generous today."

"Vergil..."

"Knowing my brother, I could probably book him on criminal mischief, loitering, and public indecency, too, but that would be more effort than I care to waste on him at the moment."

Mary thumped her fist on the front of the desk and glared at me. "You haven't seen him in like five years, and this is how you welcome him back into your life?" she asked, and now it was my turn to glower.

"Who's welcoming him?" I asked. "He's been alive for the past five years outside my knowledge because he changed his name, left the Hamptons, and hasn't touched our family's funds since I left for England. The ball's been in his court for half a decade, Mary; he could have looked me up at any time, and he never _did."_

I didn't want to admit the fact that it stung, either. Why the hell hadn't he said anything? Did he really believe I had left because I was looking to castigate him for dropping out of high school? Was he really that self-important? Just because he had no interest in bettering himself didn't mean I wasn't allowed to have goals.

What had _happened_ these past five years? Dante had always been a bit of a point of vexation in my life, but I'd never seen such outright resentment in his eyes before. Dante was the blithesome, cheerful fool who didn't hold grudges; had I really done so wrong by him without even trying?

Rising from my chair, I grabbed my coat and rounded the desk.

"Where are you going now?" Mary asked, and I glanced over my shoulder.

"I need to talk to someone," I said. "Don't follow me."

"Well what am I supposed to do with your brother?"

"He can stay in the box for a few more hours if he wants," I said, "or if he gets disorderly you can toss him into one of the holding cells in the back." I shook a finger at her. "He's got an eye for you, though, so I would recommend cuffing and gagging him if you plan on spending any time in the same room."

She acknowledged this forewarning with an impatient sigh. "And his fines?" she asked. "He says he can't pay them."

"If they're not paid within 12 hours he has to go to the prison, Mary," I said, sliding my coat onto my shoulders as I lingered in the doorway. "You know the rules. Just put him in the cage in the back with the two guys they picked up earlier and be done with it."

"You're really throwing your own brother in jail," she mused, "on charges that shouldn't even really hold in this situation. His guns hadn't even been _fired_ recently when we confiscated them."

"The law is the law," I replied, and she sat down on the edge of my desk. I frowned, but didn't scold her, mostly because I knew she would be right back at it as soon as I had left anyway. "You know it as well as I do."

The fact that I was deliberately being harsh was irrelevant; it was completely within the law to fine or imprison him for what he had done.

"Well next time you feel like pulling charges out of your ass you could see about pulling that stick out as well," she grumbled, leaning back on the desk and examining her fingernails.

I just rolled my eyes and pulled the door open. "Whatever, Mary."

* * *

Dante wasn't the only one who had disappeared while I was overseas. We had had a caretaker after our mother had died, since we were only fourteen at the time, but when I returned to find the house empty, I could only assume she had either left town or died as well. Her name hadn't been a terribly common one: if there had been a Beatrice Portinari anywhere in New York City I would have found her by now.

Recently, however, I had acquired a source. In the movies, a 'real' cop always has a guy who knew a guy, and I guessed it was really only a matter of time until I obtained one of my own. Joe Vega was not just a guy who knew a guy, however: he was a guy who knew _everybody._

I was an incorrigible overachiever.

Joe was ex-CIA. He had essentially been the man retired CIA agents turned to when they needed to disappear, when they needed the fact that they had once been privy to all of America's secrets to no longer grace their list of credentials. Joe had been in the business of erasing people, which meant he was the guy to talk to when you needed to find someone who so far as you could tell no longer existed.

I hadn't bothered asking him to look for my brother--by the time Joe had become an entry in my Rolodex, I had long come to terms with the idea that Dante was dead--but if he could find Beatrice, maybe I would get a few answers.

"So what exactly is it that you're doing now?" I asked, leaning on the back of his chair in the dim light of his too-small apartment. Joe lived like a hacker: efficiency apartment stocked floor to ceiling with computer equipment, nothing in the kitchen but Red Bull and energy bars, and an overnight bag always packed in case anyone showed up to invite him into The Matrix.

"Well, there's 24 Portinaris in the city limits," he said, "but none of 'em match your credentials." He swept a hand across a list of names and addresses and lines of numbers of which I didn't know the significance, thinking for some reason they would enlighten me on details. They didn't.

"So what now?" I asked.

He spun in his chair and wheeled over to a different computer console, munching absently on an energy bar as he did so.

"So now," he said, wiping a crumb from his mouth that I backpedaled to avoid, "we'll have a look at a little word scramble."

"Word scramble?" I decided leaning on the back of the chair might not be such a good idea after all; there might have been crumbs I couldn't see.

"You know what an anagram is, right?" he asked, and I nodded.

"Yes, it's when the letters in a word or words are rearranged to create a different word or words." I folded my arms. "So?"

"So,"--he was getting crumbs all over his front again; why did all the people I associated with talk with their mouths full?--"anagrams are very common when people take up aliases."

"They are?" That seemed foolish to me. "Doesn't that make them easier to trace?"

"Yes and no," he replied, pulling up another results generator and then typing furiously with one hand while he nursed an energy drink with the other. "If your name is John Smith there ain't much to work with, but Beatrice Portinari? Now that's got all kinds'a possibilities."

He turned to glance at me, grinning, and I offered something that was closer to a grimace in return. Joe was an interesting character; he was brilliant and efficient, he was punctual and thorough, and he always returned his phone calls. He was small and thin, mousy, with large bottlecap glasses and arms that looked too thin to even carry groceries. He spoke with an almost unintelligibly thick Brooklyn accent. He had bright eyes and bad teeth and hair that never looked like it had been thoroughly washed. Joe was a bit shady, but I could always count on him to find me a door when I hit a wall.

Joe was not my friend, but he was useful.

Another few keystrokes, and a list of his alleged 'possibilities' was displayed on the screen. He wheeled himself back over to the other computer and typed a bit more, then wheeled to a third terminal, and I found myself wondering if Joe's posterior ever actually left that chair.

"Got her," he said, and I was genuinely surprised.

"That was fast."

"All those letters mean lots of ways to arrange 'em," he said, brushing those crumbs off his shirt, "but you gotta decide on _one,_ in the end." He tapped one yellowed fingernail against the computer screen. "And we have a winner."

I leaned forward without actually touching the chair.

"Patricia Rebortine," I read, and took a moment to arrange the letters in my head. Huh. They really did spell Beatrice Portinari. It seemed like such a simple exchange--I was a little abashed that I hadn't thought of this myself. I pulled out my notebook and jotted down her address, then started to clap Joe on the shoulder before I thought better of it. "Much obliged," I said.

I _never_ said 'thank you'.

"So you can get me the--?"

"Yes, yes, we have a confiscated box-set of the AO-Rated All-Nude PC game triumvirate in the back evidence room," I said, rubbing my forehead, "and I promise I will get it to you." Then I pointed at him. "But if it ever gets out that I so much acknowledged the existence of those games, I will tear out your spleen."

He threw both hands in the air. "Got it, copper, don't shoot," he sniggered, and then went back to his energy bar.

I let myself out of the apartment and hoped that I would not have need of my guy who knew a guy again anytime soon.

* * *

Queens had never been an area I minded visiting. It was full of history and had a pleasant garden, and was a surprisingly multicultural area. It was honestly about as close to worldly as New York City got.

I supposed I shouldn't have been surprised to learn that Beatrice was living in Middle Village--it had one of the largest Italian populations in the city. Beatrice had always seemed a bit perturbed by her Italian heritage, though she never seemed to outright begrudge it, or begrudge my family ours. She had been four years older than my brother and I, which had struck me as very young for a social worker, but she had been assigned to our case by the only next of kin we were aware of; a distant uncle of our father's had appointed her. I still found it eerie that I had been unable to track down uncle Enzo when I had visited Italy one summer. Perhaps now that my detection skills had increased, I would try again.

But one step at a time.

Joe's search had given me a fourth-floor apartment at 76th and Penelope, and as I climbed the steps I found myself wondering how anyone managed to move any furniture up three flights of stairs. Cresting the staircase, I turned a corner and headed down the hall in search of apartment 415. The door was painted an unhealthy green, and the brass 1 had fallen off, leaving only a faint glow of slightly less dirty paint in the shape of the number behind.

Stuffing my memo pad back into the pocket of my coat, I lifted a hand and rapped crisply on the door. I wasn't certain if I hoped she was home or not. When I received no answer after the first series of knocks, I tried again, and then moved a bit closer to the door to attempt to peer through the peephole from the outside.

"Beatrice?" I supposed it was only natural that a woman I presumed was living alone would hesitate to open her door for a stranger in the middle of the night. I wasn't the boy I had been when I left for Europe. "Beatrice, it's Vergil."

And then I stepped back and folded my hands together. Dante had forsaken me when I had left, and if Beatrice wished to do the same I could not stop her, but she had always been much more reasonable than my brother.

There was another beat of heavy silence, and I wasn't certain at first if the sound of soft, light footsteps beyond the door was wishful thinking or not. When I heard a series of clicks indicating several lock tumblers being lined up, however, I supposed that maybe one thing had the potential to go right today after all.

The door handle twisted slowly, almost hesitantly, and then the door opened to reveal the figure of a tall, slender woman silhouetted against the soft yellow light from within her apartment. My eyes adjusted to the sudden light (the bulb above the door was burnt out, so the hallway itself was rather dim), and she focused.

She looked exactly the same. Beatrice had always had one of those ageless faces--she had looked anywhere between 18 and immortal eternity then, and she still looked it now, as if time had simply decided to leave her untouched. Her hair was a bit longer now, and she still wore it long and touching her shoulders, which were draped in a wraparound robe made of some satiny material. It was embroidered with cranes and had long sleeves like she'd been dressed up to escort some classy Japanese businessman.

Oh, it was short, though. She still had legs that looked almost too long for her body.

There was a moment of quiet, and it wasn't until her voice broke through the haze of reminiscence--"Well, isn't this a surprise?"--that I realized I was still looking at her legs. Straightening, undaunted, I met her eyes, and she smiled that thin Mona Lisa smile of hers, wordlessly stepping back and making a sweeping gesture of invitation.

It looked like she was _still_ more reasonable than my brother.

"Apologies for dropping by so late," I said, not bothering to acknowledge her alias or how I had discovered it. If she cared, she would ask. 

I turned to her as she moved to close the door behind me. 

She just shook her head. The muted television and rolled-open fashion magazine on the coffee table indicated she hadn't been sleeping anyway. She had always kept odd hours, as I recalled. I noted absently that she took an extra moment to make certain that all the locks--all seven of them--were in place before she turned back to me.

"It's still early for me," she said, folding her arms over her chest then.

"You look well." I figured she remembered I had never been good at smalltalk, but after five years of separation, diving right into questions would have been rude.

"You as well," she replied, something appreciative in her gaze, in her smile, and I wasn't quite sure what the look was for. The expression was gone as soon as it was there, however, and she strode past me.

She really hadn't changed at all: she still commanded an entire room simply by being in it. Her presence was encompassing without being suffocating, and she held the floor even when others were speaking. There was a strength and power to her now that had been there since the day I had met her, and five years had done nothing to dull or diffuse it. Yet looking at her still made something ache, old and cold and mostly healed but not quite enough to be forgotten--an old bruise that was no longer visible but still bloomed with pain when pressed. 

She still reminded me of my mother.

"Anything to drink?" she asked, tearing me from my forgotten musings.

I shook my head. "I appreciate the offer, but I don't intend to overstay my welcome," I said, the usual no-nonsense tone bleeding into my voice then. That was sufficient smalltalk. I folded my hands behind my back then, regarding her where she stood in the little alcove near the kitchen.

She nodded at my decline, turning and tugging the fridge open to retrieve herself... a beer. Yes, she was still the same Beatrice. It was something imported, from the look of the label, but it was still beer. I would never understand how she could drink the stuff. She and Dante had had a few wonderfully illegal underage bashes during our high school years, and the first beer they had forced me to try remained the last I had ever consumed. It tasted like fermented mulch water, so far as I was concerned.

She lifted the beer in something like a silent toast, then leaned back on the counter, crossing her ankles.

I could have asked a thousand questions. I could have asked why she hadn't stayed in the Hamptons. I could have asked why she had made no effort to contact me when I returned from London. I could have asked if she even knew Dante was still alive, or if she had seen him recently, or if she knew what he had been doing only 90 minutes earlier. But I was not a man to mince words.

"What happened when I left for Europe?" I asked. It was an all-encompassing question, and I hoped it would provide the answers to those which I had not yet figured out how to ask.

She paused in thought only a moment. "If you're asking, you must have some idea," she accused benignly, tapping her manicured nails on the top of the beer can before popping it open and taking a sip. The can lingered at her lower lip as she asked, "You do, don't you?"

My hand moved, unbidden, to press my thumb against the ridge of my eyebrow. "When I returned to find the house empty and our father's funds untouched," I said, my words a little strained, "I figured Dante had gotten himself killed. And when I couldn't find your name listed anywhere, I figured you had skipped town or died with him." Dante had always been closer to her than I had. He had embraced her as a surrogate mother, and I had kept her at arm's length. She hadn't been sent to us as a replacement, and I would never regard her as one.

I folded my hands again.

_'How long did he stay?'_ I wanted to ask. _'Why did he never access the money that was rightfully his?'_ I wanted to know. _'Why did you disappear?'_ I tried to inquire.

"Did he really hate me so much?" was all I could get my tongue to form.

Her face twisted briefly with suppressed pain, but the emotion faded quickly, leaving her looking simply uncomfortable. "He doesn't hate you," she said, and I noted that she had spoken in the present tense. So she had been in touch with him, then. "Quite the opposite, in fact," she added, taking another sip of her beer in lieu of expounding.

She was so infuriatingly practical sometimes. This was not her problem to work out: she wasn't going to offer any hints.

She shifted a bit and tilted her head ever so slightly. "Should I ask for the details of how you two met up or wait for the more dramatic version?"

My lip curled with contempt and I spun away from her. "Of all the ways I ever thought I might chance to meet my brother again," I snarled, "I never once entertained the idea of arresting him."

I figured she probably knew what I'd been up to since returning from England. Of the three of us I was the only one still using the same name I'd had five years ago--it wasn't like it was hard to figure out where I was. Beatrice had always had a knack for knowing more than anyone thought, to boot.

There was a beat of silence, and then she said, "Sounds like you're having a fun night." Her sarcasm was rarely malignant, but even her well-intentioned attempts at levity did nothing to smooth my frazzled nerves.

I turned back to her and half-glowered, though I hoped she wouldn't take it as anger directed at her. "He was the last thing I expected to find at the bust," I said, "and the last thing I _wanted_ to find there." I didn't bother to clarify. Once upon a time, I would have done anything for my brother, infuriating as he had been, and I had known he would have done the same. Now, I found myself wondering if he would even notice or care--or accept my help at all--if I tried. Had I really screwed up so thoroughly? I couldn't decide if I was ashamed, disappointed, or just furious with myself.

Realizing I had avoided her eyes again, I dragged my gaze back to hers, then made a silent gesture to beckon her out of the kitchen and into the sitting room. There were very few people I could stand in immediate proximity. Beatrice had been one of them, and speaking to her from across the room felt too distant. Dante may have been a lost cause, and maybe it had been my own damn fault, but he and Beatrice were the only family I had left, and I wanted to protect that for as long as I could.

She obliged me, sitting down on the arm of the sofa, her arms folded, her beer still caught in her fingers. In a way, she was guilty of the same things Dante was, but I couldn't find it in me to condemn her the way I did him. Maybe it was because she had acknowledged me when our eyes had met, whereas Dante had just grinned and ignored me and resisted arrest like the fool street punk he was. Or maybe it was because she looked so much like my mother, whom I could never quite manage to truly begrudge anything, try as my prepubescent self had inevitably wanted to.

I sat down in the chair adjacent to the sofa without asking permission, but sat hunched and uncomfortable all the same. "He changed his name, left no trace behind..." I shook my head and scowled at my hands. "He didn't want me to find him." I looked up at her again. "So I find myself wondering why I did."

"I think he did," she replied quietly after a moment, and then grinned. "He won't admit it for the life of him, of course."

I wasn't sure I believed her.

"But that's not my story to tell," she continued, and I frowned at her. She tilted her head again, almost imperceptibly. "That's why you're here, isn't it?"

I sighed, smearing my hands down my face and then raking them back through my hair.

"He's a fool," I said, controlled anger in my voice. "He's hiding from something, hiding behind a fake name and false bravado..." I scoffed derisively and sat back in the chair then. "And as usual, I have no idea what to do with him. I've got him downtown right now, and he's too damn proud to pull the money that's rightfully his to pay his own way out." I hesitated for only a moment, then looked down at my hands where they were folded in my lap. "I thought he was five years dead," I said, "and now suddenly I kind of want to strangle him with my own hands."

She was quiet for a long time as I spoke, and I was something like grateful that she was still good at listening. Dante never kept anything to himself--happiness, rage, fear, he wore them all on his sleeves. I had always felt like I needed to compensate by keeping my cards close to my chest... which had led to inevitable stewing and festering of emotions into what probably should have manifested into full-blown mental illness by now. I was either lucky or talented.

Beatrice rose then, moving toward the door, and for a moment I genuinely thought she was going to ask me to leave. Maybe threatening to throttle my brother had crossed a line. There was a shuffling sound then, and I turned to see her rummaging through her purse, on a stand near the door. There was a tall, expensive looking vase on the stand, though it was bereft of flowers. It looked like something that might have been in the old house in the Hamptons, but I couldn't quite remember.

Turning back toward me and leaning forward, she extended her hand toward me, a single silver key caught in her fingers. "Don't let me stop you," she said, smiling faintly.

I didn't hesitate, taking the key and staring at it a moment before sliding it into my pocket. Maybe Dante would be more likely to explain himself on his own turf.

That in mind...

"I have a favor to ask you," I said, rising again and straightening the front of my slacks. She lifted her eyebrows inquiringly, and I reached into one of the inner pockets of my coat, which I had not removed. I withdrew from it three stacks of rubber-banded hundred-dollar notes. $30,000. "That idiot refuses to touch our father's money," I said, offering the bills to her. "He's a fool, but he doesn't belong in jail. Not for this." I shook my head. "I can't pay it for him, for obvious reasons."

She accepted the cash wordlessly, not bothering to count it for the same reason I was not worried about giving it to her. I could count the people I truly trusted on one hand, and I would have had fingers left over, but for as difficult as she was to read at times there had never been a lack of confidence between us. She went back to her purse and slid the money inside, then leaned over, appearing to write something down.

"603," she said, twisting to hand me a slip of paper with an intersection written on it--Pelham Parkway North and Wallace Avenue--he lived in the Bronx? "Be sure to watch the first floorboard when you step in. He's been meaning to 'fix' it for a few months."

I reached into my pocket and withdrew a business card, handing it to her.

"If you need to get a hold of me," I said unnecessarily, and then took a step toward the door. I was no better at visiting than I was at smalltalk, and now that I had accomplished what I had come to do, I was out of amenable ammunition.

She slid the card into her robe. I _blinked._ She turned then and unlatched the locks on the door. I found myself wondering why she felt she needed seven locks in Queens, but supposed that was an investigation for another day. One step at a time. She tugged the door open and gave me a small grin.

"I'll be sure to set up the signal, Commissioner," she said, and I actually found myself letting out a hint of a chuckle as I walked through the doorway and back out into the obscured shadows of the hallway.

"Don't be a stranger," I said, waving over one shoulder as I headed for the stairs. I heard the door close behind me.

I really had no more answers than when I had arrived--on the contrary, I felt like now I had more questions--but progress had been made regardless. Now all I had to do was invite myself over to Dante's apartment, let myself in, wait for him to return home, and attempt to initiate civil conversation.

Right, this was going to be a piece of cake.


	6. Chapter 6

The hospitality of the 26th Precinct wasn't anything I wanted to get used to. We'd already established that the coffee was only suitable for someone who had lost their sense of taste, and the sleeping arrangements weren't much better. My cellmates for the night were about as friendly as Wal-Mart shoppers at Christmas, and I didn't even have any good roll-down deals for them to complain about. I'd already decided that the cot was mine, which really wasn't a way to make friends, but that was fine with me. I sure wasn't in jail to make friends.

'Chrome' was a really unoriginal name when you thought about it, given the fact that his teeth were probably worth more than the rest of him. His associate Montell had decidedly fewer dental accessories, but beyond that, he looked pretty normal, if that was really a term that could be used to describe people in prison. They were in for the usual crap: possession of illegal substances and selling that kind of stuff to kids. 

I hated guys like that.

I was the scum of the earth, sure, but I wasn't sewer scum. There was a _big_ difference, most noticeably in body odor and a particular sense of style. Hoodies had never really intimidated me.

Even though my eyes were closed, I could feel the glares being sent my way. I was reclining on the less-than-comfortable cot, ankles crossed and hands behind my head. I left myself completely open; I wasn't afraid of them or their bad breath. The silence--well, it was more silence from my end--had dragged on for a good twenty minutes at least, but I wasn't keeping track. The two would whisper something low back and forth to each other and then continue to stare at me. What could I say? I liked having an audience, but an audience while napping was getting on the side of creepy.

Chrome was the first to finally talk. "So." I peeled one eyelid open just in time to catch the shine of his teeth. Really, I couldn't imagine waking up to _that_ every morning. "What you in for?" 

Small talk between criminals. I was usually pretty accommodating, but having my brother send me to jail had kind of put me in a bad mood.

"Tore the tag off a mattress." I closed my eyes again.

I heard the rustle of jeans and sneakers, but it was the three day-old breath on my face that told me Chrome had decided he wasn't into stand-up. Too bad, I had a whole routine ready to go.

"Think you're funny, huh?" Yes, I did, actually. His sneer said that he didn't agree. I made a point of waving him off, trying to clear the air of sewage between our faces. My shirt was grabbed for the second time that night as Chrome yanked me up off the mattress, giving me a full whiff of he'd had for dinner and whatever he'd been letting rot behind his grill for the last few weeks. "Wanna hear somethin' that's _really_ funny?"

Okay, I'd play along. "Sure, I'm in the mood for a good giggle."

"Pretty boys like you always make a good _bitch_ upstate." To make his point, he yanked me clean off the cot and slammed my back to the ground. Montell was standing a few feet away, arms crossed and silent. Going to rough me up for mattress rights, huh? Somehow I doubted telling them I had a bad back would get me sympathy. I sighed, tearing his hands off my shirt and dusting it off. I wasn't giving up on the bed, though--if that guy slept on it, even Febreeze was going to be in vain.

Standing back up, I rolled my shoulders, taking note that they were closing in. Nothing like a jail cell brawl to put you to sleep.

"If you're worried about the mattress," I said, jerking my thumb toward the prize, "I promise I'll leave the tag intact."

Chrome was the first to swing. I tilted my head to the left, narrowly avoiding his fist and the plethora of rings that would have left a nasty mark. The second fist came down low toward my back; I caught it with my left hand. A jab in the chest with my elbow and my knuckles to his nose stopped the assault before it started, but I think it was when my knee found his stomach and the heel of my boot struck his back and slammed him down to the floor that put him out. Montell had hesitated; guess he was the smart one.

Foot on his back, I leaned forward, using my weight to slowly put pressure on his ribcage. His fingers twitched and I grinned. That was when we heard footsteps. Montell and I glanced through the heavy bars as a cop approached, dimly lit by the hallway bulb that was threatening to go out of commission.

"Dante Zavattoni," he said in a low, thick accent. I straightened, raising one brow; he was going for the keys. "Let's go." The door slid open with a rusty creak.

"Sorry, officer, but I don't need to use the little boy's room."

He rolled his eyes, round fingers motioning me forward. "Har har." Guess I was on a roll that night. "C'mon, _out_. Your fees've been paid."

Well, now _that_ was a surprise. I hadn't called in any favors and what little I had was back at my place. Pocket change, really: enough to get by for another week on delivery and take-out. I didn't _have_ $30,000 to spare.

But hey, who knew I had a Guardian Angel looking out for me? I cast a smirk to Montell who had sunken deeper into the cell, eyes going back and forth between the officer and my footrest--I mean, his buddy. Not wanting to stretch my legs too far, I just stepped on Chrome as I made my way out of the sell. He gave a grunt.

"Just when we were getting to know each other."

* * *

Guardian Angel hadn't been far off. She was waiting outside, resting all her weight to one side with her hip cocked as usual. Black jeans tucked into knee-high boots and a top that left just enough to the imagination, she gave me a smile as I paused at the top of the steps. Given the fact I had just gotten more intimate with another guy than I'd ever wanted, Trish was a sight for sore eyes.

"We've got to stop meeting like this," I said, taking the stairs two at a time. Her lips turned just a tad further upward.

"I think that's my line." She turned to the side to allow me some room, but fell into step at my side without needing prompting. If there was one person I knew I could count on, it was her. The one constant I'd had over the few years and the best friend I could ask for, she was really the only family I considered myself having at that point. We weren't related, though--she had been appointed as our social worker right when Mom died. We were only fourteen at the time, so I guess we needed it.

To be honest, at first I couldn't stand her. The last thing I wanted was some stranger telling me how to live my life and looking at her had been painful, to say the least. Maybe it was because she looked a lot like Mom that actually got me to warm up to her, but in the end it was the differences between the two that got her my respect. Mom was fiery and passionate, Trish was subtle but sassy. No one could keep me on my toes quite like she could. Sometimes _I_ needed it.

"Looks like news travels fast, eh?" I inclined my head toward her as we turned the corner. She lifted a thin brow at me in return. "Three hours isn't much to say for time in the can."

Trish gave a simple shrug of her shoulders. "You've got a reputation to live up to." She tilted her head toward me a as well. "But as far as I know, none of it entails getting arrested."

I threw my hands up at that; she was only four years older me, but all that time being our guardian of sorts still leaked in every once in a while. She hadn't been Mom, but she was indispensable and, honestly, what I still needed. From time to time. Unfortunately that meant I wasn't always free from blame.

" _Trust_ me, that wasn't part of the plan."

"So, what is?" The question was a little too innocent and open-ended for my taste. She was inexplicably good at being soft-spoken and knowing everything at the same time. "Heading home?"

I shook my head. "I need to blow off some steam." And some heads. We came to a stop at an intersection, the flashing red hand commanding our cooperation, even if it was missing a finger. "They took my _guns_." I wasn't the kind of guy to punch babies, but that knowledge made it kind of tempting for a moment. Vergil, the dick--I blamed _him_ for that. Sure, I could get another pair manufactured, but Ebony and Ivory weren't just guns, they were a part of me. They _weren't_ replaceable.

Trish gave me the benefit of a sympathetic look. "Beating yourself up for it won't bring them back." Oh, I knew that, but it wasn't myself I was planning on kicking around.

We crossed the street, coming toward a tall Park and Ride. That must be where she left her car. I made a point to turn the other direction, my long jacket giving some dramatic flair to the decision. I heard the click of her high heels stop.

"Do you want a ride?" 

I shook my head, halting my own progress as I shoved my hands into my pockets. I could have used a shot of vodka and a good lay, but I had too much to think about to really bother with the latter.

"Nah," I sighed, looking up toward the sky. It was dark, yes, but in New York it was never really that glittery night sky that you always imagined. Neon lights and dying street lamps never quite let it be true night. I was used to it. "Think I'm just gonna wander for a bit." With that, I let my chin drop back down, giving her a salute over my shoulder. "I'll pay you back."

Somehow.

She didn't wait any longer, either. I could hear her steps resume as she made her way toward the Park and Ride entrance. Trish rarely ever raised her voice, but I could still hear every word.

"You should go home." The heavy door opened. "You might find that peace of mind you're looking for."

* * *

Something was wrong. I knew that the second I stepped into my building. The front door had actually been closed _properly,_ for one thing; most of my neighbors tended to slam it to the point of it bouncing back without prompting at that point. The stairs were quiet except for the occasional creak of a rotting floorboard. That was typical, but the feeling that I was missing something entirely, I couldn't shake.

My place was right next to the stairwell, something I had planned--in my line of work, having an easy-access escape route was pretty important. I could never quite tell if the door was supposed to be green, blue, or brown, given the old paint jobs chipping away. I liked to call it chartreuse--not because it actually remotely resembled the color, but because it was fun to say. Good thing most people I chatted with never knew the difference. But it became very apparent what was wrong very quickly.

I could hear music from my room.

I never left my stereo on.

The fact that it kept cutting in and out between tracks told me more than I needed to know; someone had to be in there to switch the songs. Dammit.

Instinct had me reach to my back holster for my girls, but all my fingers grazed was air. I felt naked, but not helpless. I'd taken people out with nothing more than a fist before, so that's what would have to do.

Like I was going to let anyone mess with my stereo system, anyway.

As quietly as I could, I slid my key into the lock, taking a long, careful moment until I heard a barely audible click of metal. The music kept going, so I assumed my unwanted guest was still mesmerized by my taste. Just as quietly I turned the knob, glad I had bothered to WD-40 the hinges just a few days prior. I pushed the door open just enough to peer into the front room of my apartment--stepping over that broken floorboard would be a must. I'd been meaning to fix that. All the lights were on--I never did that. Electricity was expensive enough and I'd already received the final notice on them shutting me off. 

I couldn't see the stereo, it was on the opposite wall, behind the door. With my back against the door I spent a good moment just trying to detect any audible pattern in the intruder's movements.

Nope, just a low grumble as the track changed again.

Well, I was never a guy who liked to wait.

I took a silent breath in, squeezing my fist together. That was when I heard my guest stand. They'd turned on the radio at that point; I frowned when I recognized Beethoven's 9th Symphony. They took a step--a step too close--and I knew it was just a matter of seconds before they realized that they weren't alone.

I wasn't going to let them have the element of surprise. Kicking the door open and rounding the corner, I threw my fist forward, making contact on the first try.

Making contact with a face that looked _way_ too much like mine.

Vergil staggered backward, his hand immediately moving to the side of his face I'd just given special attention to. I took a step back of my own, going between surprise and wanting to punch him again.

"Well, isn't _this_ a heart-warming family reunion."

He straightened, turning to glare with his lips in a perfect line. "Was that _really_ necessary?" he asked, working his jaw.

I could be a cool customer when I wanted to, but with my brother--the one who just booked me in jail, sent me down another $30,000 in debt, and stole my guns, remember?--standing in _my_ apartment like had some sort of _right_ to be there? Well, any good graces I had left died right then and there.

"You know what? I think it was," I growled. How the hell did he find me? The apartment wasn't listed under my legal name _or_ Tony Redgrave. My arm made a perfect line toward the open door. "Now, get _out_."

He didn't back down despite my order. No, if anything, he was threatening to stare me down in my own damn apartment. _My_ apartment. Maybe it was the cop in him that was giving him this entitled attitude after he'd try to throw me around back at the precinct, but I knew a good part of it stemmed from the fact that it was just how he was. He liked to think he was in charge.

"I was hoping we could actually discuss things like human beings--" Yeah, right. "--and I knew you were never going to actually talk to me at the station house without your ever-present Mr. Cool mask." That was right, because I had nothing to say to him. He shrugged one hand, letting go of his face and tilted his head. "I figured you might be a little more comfortable if you had the home advantage."

" _T'ch_." Home advantage my ass. What advantage was there in having him know exactly where I lived and let himself in? How had he gotten in, anyway? The door had been locked and all the splinters and cracks had either been there before I moved in or where from me getting a little too excited when I left in the morning. One was from Trish; she was a lot stronger than she looked. "You're right, it makes me feel oh _so_ good inside to come home to this."

I motioned to the apartment at large, which unfortunately consisted of mainly my brother at that point. My brother and a few bags of garbage and--

...wait.

"What--" My eyes widened as I spun around in a wide circle, which was never a good idea, considering my place was on the small side. "--what'd you _do_?"

All the couch cushions were in place; the broken coffee table was still standing half on a pile of (now neatly stacked) phone books, but it had been moved, centered directly in front of the sofa; my collection of old pizza boxes was gone, presumably having migrated to one of the large garbage bags that sat in the corner; the clothes that were usually thrown around the room were sitting in a laundry basket just outside the bedroom; hell, even the kitchen lacked the usual stack of dirty coffee mugs and used silverware.

Vergil had seriously stopped by and done some Spring Cleaning. To my stuff. He had always been compulsively neat, but this was pushing it.

I wanted to punch him again.

"Well, you took longer than I was expecting... so I had to find some way to pass the time. Your kitchen was a sanitation hazard, and you had enough old papers tossed in the corners to breach fire-safety codes." He moved to the coffee table and picked up a small stack of dog-eared papers. "Your electric bill is overdue, by the way."

He was going through my mail. Great.

"Really? I had no idea." I made a point of kicking the door shut, adding another imprint of the sole of my boot. He obviously wasn't leaving any time soon. Brushing past him, I didn't look at Vergil or the bill, instead heading into the bedroom to toss my jacket on the now _made_ bed. Okay, I was a little messy, but it was an organized mess--I knew where everything was, what each pile meant. Now it was going to take me ages to find anything again.

My shirt joined the jacket--I wasn't changing for his benefit, more to just get the lingering funk of my new friend Chrome off me. Staring at the pile of laundry, I realized Vergil had just dumped it all into one, probably assuming _everything_ was dirty. I usually had three piles: dirty, worn-in, and mostly clean, depending on if Trish had stopped by and decided to take care of the laundry herself. The coin laundry machine on the third floor sucked.

Screw it. Pants were enough to keep me decent. I turned off the light even though the electric company was ready to have my ass, anyway.

"Here to talk, not to gloat, eh?" I stepped back out into the main room, still not looking at him. "I'm so lucky."

I heard him sigh, but that was it. He wasn't particularly impressed either. I shot him a look over my shoulder, just in time to catch a look that was hanging dangerously on the edge of irritation and, well, the other part I didn't believe at all. He tossed the bills back down on the the table and folded his arms again. If I were feeling like a good host, I would have offered him a seat on the couch. I let him stand.

"I've got nothing to gloat about; that raid had nothing to do with you, and to be frank you were the last person I had hoped to find in a place like that. I was just doing my job." Wrong place, wrong time; that was how the saying went, wasn't it? He paused for a moment, silently asking for my own patience as well. I didn't have any for him. "So can we turn the sour-milk session down a notch or two?"

"Sorry, we're fresh out of non-fat." I turned back to my stereo, frowning at the F.M. station I didn't recognize. I punched the CD button and let the player decided something a little more fitting. "Got something to say? Say it."

The twitch of his brow told me he was less than pleased that I'd changed the background track, but that was part of the reason I did it. The glance he sent to my stereo confirmed it. But he was resigned, folding his arms again--I knew it as preparation for the conversation we were about to have. I didn't want it, and I wasn't sure he did either.

Space was limited, so my beer fridge was just a foot away from the entertainment center. It was small and for just that: beer only. I swung the tiny door open and pulled out the first thing I could find: a bottle of Jack Daniel's. Whatever. I twisted off the cap bare-handed, tossing it in no particular direction. Shoving the door closed with my foot, I turned back toward my brother. He'd taken to pacing in his usual pattern--two steps, turn, two steps, turn--it was like some sort of weird dance, but we were both creatures of habit. I was used to his pacing as well as the glare he sent.

"If you hate Wesker so much, what were you doing there with his cronies?"

I rolled my eyes at that. "Ain't it obvious?" While I wasn't going to offer him a seat, I took one for myself. Plopping down on my leather couch, I made myself comfortable. "I was there to play."

"To play?" The pacing stopped and he just stared at me like I'd grown another head. "The Dante I knew only gambled with his life, never with his money. When did that change?"

It was a long story that I wasn't going to tell him. One loan had led to another, and before I knew it, I was in debt up to my eyeballs and half the city was after me for it. I barely got by on minimum payments, which was probably the only reason I didn't have a number on my head right then. It had changed the second I'd left our parents' old house. That was when _everything_ had changed.

"My life isn't going to pay the bills, now is it?" I motioned to the pile of notices on the coffee table as I propped my feet up next to them. 

"Your life as it is right now isn't going to pay for anything, your bills least of all," he muttered.

"But now it's my turn to ask a question." Reclining further into the couch, I narrowed my eyes on him. He turned to face me fully. "How the hell did you get in here?"

He paused, frowning a bit as he pressed his lips together. "If I'd known we were trading off twenty questions I wouldn't have wasted my first on what was mostly rhetoric."

I scoffed. "You had your chance, _brother_. You said it yourself, you're on my turf, now--this ain't the interrogation room." Meaning my questions were just as valid. I downed the bottle to half-full.

He gave me a look that just said 'duh', except I knew that word would never be heard in Vergil's voice. "As for how I got in here..." He hesitated, which wasn't like him. I frowned as I watched his expression go from unamused to slightly worn before he rolled his eyes at me and arched his brows. "I'm a detective, Dante. You'd be amazed how far a shiny badge will get you with slumlords."

So my landlord had ratted me out? Awesome. Guess I should have given my brother some credit. He'd have to deal with silent applause.

"Just having a badge won't do you any good here, _detective_." I pointed down to the floor, _my_ floor. But, even despite the fact that I probably should have thrown my beer bottle back at him, I knew how to play the game. We were usually at odds throughout most of our childhood. To most people it probably looked like a melee free-for-all, but there were rules. I'd at least allow him basic courtesy in that realm, even if he was an asshole who didn't deserve it after what he pulled just a few hours prior.

"Hence why I didn't bother pulling said badge _out_. Look, Dante, believe it or not, I didn't come here to argue with you, all right?" He looked tired. Maybe 3 A.M. wasn't his time of day, but he also didn't have to make a house-call; I didn't feel sorry for him.

"Your turn. Don't waste it," I said around the mouth of the bottle. He didn't seem to notice the generosity.

"You could have at least let me know you weren't dead, you know."

He was right; I could have, but I didn't know that's what he thought in the first place. I'd long since distanced myself from whatever he thought or felt. Some heart-warming talk wasn't going to change that, now that he suddenly decided he had some business in my life just because he arrested me.

Vergil kneaded his forehead gingerly when I didn't reply, another habit when his patience was waning. "Okay, fine, let's change the subject." He gestured at me and I locked my jaw. "I get it: you left home because you think I abandoned you, and you won't touch Father's money because you feel like he abandoned _us_. I get that." He shook his head, giving me the look of a Disappointed Parent. I wanted to punch him again. "But I tried to do what was best--for you, for me, for Beatrice, for _all_ of us, and while I never expected your gratitude, I had hoped you might at least be capable of _understanding_ that--"

"Just shut _up_!" I was on my feet before I even realized I had moved, the now-empty bottle falling from my grip and clattering to the floor. I shoved the coffee table out of the way, ignoring how it skid across my worn wooden flooring. Those marks wouldn't come out for a while. I was in his face, not touching, but dangerously close. "You think you have _all_ the answers, don't you? You _always_ did." I sized him up, figuring I could take him just fine. He didn't flinch, face unmovable and cold as always. "Books aren't going to tell you what's good for the rest of us. I don't need you telling me how to run my own damn life!" 

Shoving against his shoulder with my elbow, I pushed past him, heading toward my mini-fridge. He yielded without a word and didn't turn to follow. The court had put _him_ in charge of Dad's money, not me, and he never had a problem reminding me of that. I didn't want his money, honestly, but it was clear he didn't trust me with it even if I did. I popped the tab on another beer, not bothering to keep the foam down as I opened the can, instead letting it pour over my fingers as I downed most of the contents in one go. Wiping my mouth, I freed one finger from my grip on the beer and pointed again. "You weren't doing what was best for us--you were doing what was best for _you_."

That was how I'd always seen it. I'd gotten mad at my brother nearly every day for most of our lives, and frankly, he seemed to feel the same. But at the end of the day he was still my brother. I didn't know what I'd have done without him, not after Dad died, especially not after mom died. And instead of sticking around when he was needed he had decided to go a world away, leaving me with the realization that the same damned job that Dad had held was more important than what was left of our broken family.

What was best for me wasn't job security--it was having a _family_. That's all I'd ever wanted.

"I don't _have_ a father."

Vergil's monk-like silence was broken all at once. The first real emotion I'd seen since he came to my apartment was the anger he showed in his eyes right then, his lip curled in contempt. " _Neither_ of us do, Dante, because he's _dead_. I know you've resented him since the day he was killed, and I don't expect you to respect anything he tried to do for us, or anything he left behind, but do you really think this is what _she_ would have wanted?"

He just thought he knew everything, didn't he? But he knew what he was doing. That was why he mentioned her.

Mom.

I slammed the beer down on the table, glaring a silent threat from underneath my bangs. What _she_ would have wanted was to not end up as toe tag like Dad. We both knew that was why we left New York all those years ago, we knew she was hiding, trying to protect us from whatever silent threat had offed Dad in the first place. 

I pointed at him, accusing. "I don't have a father, and _you're_ not him!"

Vergil's eyes were narrow and dangerous. "I was never trying to _be_ him, you fool! We barely managed to figure out how to be _brothers_ , do you really think I would have had the gall to attempt to be the man our father was? We are only _half_ the man Sparda was, and maybe that's all we'll ever be, but I'm not through trying." 

"You're just _like_ him; _look_ at yourself!" Spinning on the heels of my boots, I gestured to his ensemble; he had always been Dad's favorite. "Even some glorified _detective_ riding on old world money. _T'ch._ "

What had been almost a statue turned immediately, slicing the air itself in anger as he closed in on me, slamming the heel of that same hand to the wall. "Is that really what you think? You think I became a cop because that's what our father did?"

The answer was obvious, wasn't it? "Seems like a pretty logical conclusion to me!" The same job, the same clothes--really, he had just become more and more like our dad over the years. We were up at each other again, two wolves with some sort of invisible cage bars between us that kept us from tearing each other's heads off. Vergil rarely raised his voice, and he didn't then, but there was more power behind every word.

"I became a cop to try and find the monsters who took our _parents_ away, Dante! I've spent the past _two years_ trying to reach his level, to become what he was, learning how to fight, how to profile the filthy devils that take the lives of those they deem unworthy, so that maybe I could stop the people who destroyed our family from destroying anyone else's!"

The beer sank to the bottom of my stomach. I was reminded I hadn't eaten in a while, but food sounded pretty gross right about then. My eyes narrowed on his, he didn't back down. It was a stalemate that was never going to end. Five years seemed like nothing all of a sudden--we were exactly the same, weren't we?

I hated to admit it, but I was the first to break eye contact. If there was ever a time to feel like a royal jerk, that was it. How was I supposed to know what he was going after? The years leading up to his departure hadn't made us the best of friends, let alone family. Hopes and dreams? That wasn't the sort of things we told one another. Vergil had always idolized Dad--him going off to become a cop just like him seemed pretty straight-forward to me.

Maybe I could have tried to contact him, but he could have told me he wasn't just pushing what we had left out of his own life.

I'd lost a lot of steam. Making a huffing sound, I brushed past him, intentionally knocking our shoulders roughly, as if to throw out one last 'don't mess with me'. But that was all I had to offer.

"I know we never really saw eye to eye, but I was only trying to attain the power to save what we had left," he said, giving me a sidelong glance over his shoulder, but stayed facing the opposite direction. I paused, then shook my head.

"Whatever." It was a noble cause, yeah. For a moment I almost wanted to prove to him I had my own noble cause I was going after, but I really didn't feel like talking anymore. "Good for you." Good for him. Good for him for trying to do right by our parents. Sauntering into my bedroom, I left the door open, but didn't bother turning on the lights. "Let me know when you find 'em, then. I've got a few things I've been planning to say." I flopped down on the old spring mattress with my beer, not caring that some spilt on the sheets that all ready needed a washing. Covering my eyes with the back of my hand, I sighed--rewinding the last few days would have been a nice ability right about then.

I heard him come to my bedroom door, but his footsteps stopped there. A moment passed, I don't know how long, before he gave a grated sigh and retreated. There was a scraping sound--I figured he was moving my coffee table back into place. Cute. I sighed as well, rubbing my eyes in the dark and wondering just how the hell all this had happened.

The door opened and there was another pause. I heard him speak quietly across the room. "Just try and stay out of trouble. You only get one Get Out of Jail Free card." He didn't quite slam the door, but it wasn't a peaceful exit, either.

Vergil was gone.

I wasn't sure how long I just stayed there, laying on my mattress, my feet hanging off the edge. My beer had long-since gone room temperature. If I wasn't so short on cash I would have dumped it, but pride alone made me finish off the can. Crushing it in my hand, I tossed it to the other end of the room, hearing it bounce off the wall and fall somewhere else.

Man. It just really wasn't my day.

Feeling the hole in my stomach only increase with each passing minute and not wanting to spend more time brooding than really necessary for a fresh bout of guilt while I picked at old wounds, I hopped out of bed. There should have been an old Domino's pizza chilling in the refrigerator, anyway, and I could go for cold pizza right about then. Stepping out into the main room, however, I found something I didn't expect.

Ebony and Ivory were sitting on my coffee table as if they'd never left. My eyes widened, looking about the room wildly, trying to see what sort of set up it was. But no, there they were, just begging me to tuck them in for the night. As I reached down, still cautious, something that was tucked beneath Ivory caught my attention. Pulling it out, I found a small, thick piece of paper.

A business card. _Detective Vergil Zavattoni, 26th Precinct._ He'd circled his cell number with an almost impeccable perfect oval.

I grinned despite myself.

"Well, well," I said, taking Ivory in my right hand and Ebony in my left. "Guess I owe you one."


	7. Chapter 7

Saturday, 12November, 06:34:23  
West End Avenue and 85th Street, Manhattan, NY

I knew that a human being was capable of going approximately 336 hours without sleep before the body's vital functions began to shut down one by one. Staying awake for 22 hours straight and then only sleeping three before rising for another day was not life-threatening, but it was still probably one of the most unpleasant things I wound up doing on a somewhat regular basis. The life of a cop was not for the weak of heart or body, I had known that when I took the job, but there was a reason sleep deprivation was a form of torture.

It didn't help that I was awakened half an hour before my alarm by the insistent cries of my roommate.

"I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times," I said, covering my face with a pillow, "I will give you breakfast at 7am sharp and not a moment before, Yamato."

The cat made a point of sitting on my abdomen and meowing loudly again, and I tossed the pillow aside, glowering at him. His yellow eyes always looked a little too bright against his rainy-day blue-grey fur.

"Do you spend the day contemplating new ways to raise my blood pressure, or does it just come naturally?" I asked him, and he hunkered down and tucked his legs beneath him, squinting his eyes at me. I sighed, figuring I might as well just get up. I was already awake, anyway. However I made Yamato wait for breakfast until after I'd taken a shower, just to show him I would not be manipulated into feeding him early, even under penalty of torture.

Slicking my hair back and swiping my hand across the bathroom mirror to clear away the condensation, a towel wrapped around my hips, I leaned on the counter and stared a moment at my reflection, frowning. It had only been about four hours since I had left Dante's apartment, but it sort of felt like it had happened weeks ago. We had always had a bit of an ideological disconnect, my brother and I, but it was hard to imagine that we had really come to this. I supposed I could understand that to him, it had looked as though I had simply meant to follow in our father's footsteps, and I could easily grasp why that would lead to resentment--Dante had always been one to damn first and ask questions never. I still wished he would have just _talked_ to me about it. We hadn't been close since we were very young children, before our personal divergences had become so apparent, but if he wasn't going to make any effort to meet me half way, then neither would I.

I robotically got dressed, barely paying attention to which shirt and slacks I pulled from my closet--not that it mattered; everything would have matched just about everything else either way--and then nabbed Yamato under his ribs and slung him over my shoulder to head out to the kitchen. He complained loudly in my ear, but made no effort to retaliate. His bark had always been worse than his bite, as it were.

Setting him down on the kitchen floor, I pulled open the pantry and grabbed a tin of cat food, popping it open and scooping it out onto a plate. That was when my phone rang, and it actually startled me so badly I sliced my finger open on the sharp edge of the lid of the can. I swore under my breath and set the plate down in front of Yamato, sort of cradling my bleeding finger in my other hand. I had left my phone in the pocket of my coat when I'd come home, draping it over the back of the couch because I was just too worn out to bother hanging it up. Retrieving the phone, I recognized the number as Mary's.

I flipped the phone open. "What," I grunted into the receiver, and I could practically see Mary's eyebrow arch.

"Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed," she said, and I rolled my eyes.

"If you have nothing useful to contribute I'm hanging up."

"Someone posted your brother's fees," she said then, and I paused a moment to indicate surprise. I knew already, of course, but I wasn't about to tell her why.

"And?"

"So he's gone," she said, and I sighed when I heard her take a bite of something. Probably one of those infernal bear claws she liked so much. Even on the phone, she was going to talk with her mouth full; there was no reprieve.

_"And?"_ I was getting impatient.

"Well you don't have to bite my head off," she complained. "I just thought you'd want to know."

"I appreciate being apprised of the breaking news."

I hung up the phone. I was not in the mood for Mary's enthusiasm today.

* * *

A paper Starbucks cup was placed on top of the stack of reports I was reading, and I lifted my head. Mary was dressed a little differently today--she was actually wearing a suit. It was cream-colored with pinstripes; a jacket and a short pencil skirt with a slit up one side. It looked kind of expensive. I was a bit surprised.

"What's the occasion?" I asked, and she folded her arms. The shirt beneath the jacket was still unbuttoned too far for my taste, but she obviously wouldn't be arsed to fix that.

"You sounded like hell on the phone, and you look worse," she said, and then jerked a thumb over her shoulder. "The coffee here would probably just give you the runs on top of everything else, so I thought I'd procure something consumable."

"I..." I had meant the suit, not the coffee, but I supposed I appreciated the sentiment of the gesture. I preferred tea over coffee, but at this point I probably could have done with a caffeine IV in my elbow, so I accepted the offering.

"What'd you do to your hand?" she asked, and I glanced at the thin bandage around my finger.

"Epidermal incision," I replied.

"Paper cut?"

"Feline feeding accident."

"How _is_ Yamato?"

"Grumpy and impatient as ever," I said, surprised yet again that she remembered that.

"You taught him well," she said cheekily, and sat down on the edge of the desk. Her skirt was too short; I could see far more of her thigh than was appropriate in an office setting, but I didn't have the energy to chastise her. I threw back a gulp of the coffee and found it was actually quite palatable. Twisting the cup in my hand, I checked the grease pencil writing on the side. A mocha. She had gotten me a mocha. I gave her a look, and she just grinned.

"What, too manly for a girly drink?" she chuckled. "Come on, I know you still like chocolate."

I just grunted, going back to the reports, and she slid off the desk to return to her chair, a portfolio in her lap and her own coffee cup in her free hand. There were a few minutes of silence, and then she spoke up again.

"So Wesker's goons went to arraignment court about half an hour ago," she said.

"Mm," I replied, not looking up.

"They plead guilty to the gambling and money-laundering charges."

"Mm."

"The trial's in two weeks, bail's set at $450K each, since they're _all_ probably a flight risk. No matter--one of the flunkies with tenure will pay their way out and we'll never hear a word about where Wesker himself is, in the end."

"Mm."

"He's not necessarily our guy, though. There was nothing to indicate he was at the scene of my father's death."

"Mm."

"Also aliens landed on the roof last night and have taken over all of the rookies' bodies. We'll have to eliminate them before the invasion spreads."

I glanced up at her, and she pursed her lips.

"Well, at least I know you were actually listening."

"Mm." My eyes went back to my reports.

"Is that all you have to say?" She leaned forward, frowning at me. "I know you're not into smalltalk, but this is ridiculous."

"You were doing so much chattering I figured I had to balance it out," I said, and she rolled her eyes.

"Somebody needs a nap," she said. 

I ignored her. I had a two-year-old case file that had been sitting on my record like an open wound, I had reunited with my not-so-dead brother only to discover he was still nothing but a huge pain in the ass, I hadn't slept hardly at all the previous night, and we'd hit a dead end on the captain's case. Why she thought I would be up for idle conversation today, of all days, I couldn't guess.

The words were blurring together again, but I was sure there had to be something I'd missed. There was no way someone was going to get away with killing my captain--killing someone's _father_ \--on my watch. I didn't consider myself a vigilante; for the most part I honestly didn't like people, but serving and protecting had always been something I could stand behind. 

"Vergil."

People were foolish. People were weak. And if weak, foolish people got into trouble on their own, that was their own fault, but preying on those who didn't have the power to defend themselves was disgusting.

"Vergil?"

I hadn't been able to protect my family. I hadn't been able to protect Mary's. The least I could do was bring those who had destroyed them to justice.

_"Vergil."_

I looked up. Mary's brow was knit.

"Are you okay?" she asked, and I just peered at her a moment. I supposed that depended on how one defined 'okay', but I wasn't about to own up to anything. She narrowed her eyes. "You never even ate anything yesterday, did you?"

"What are you now, my babysitter?"

"Well clearly somebody has to keep an eye on you," she said, and I just grunted again. Her voice was starting to give me a headache. She scoffed--"Men are so helpless..."--and then got to her feet.

"Where are you going?" I asked, watching her saunter toward the door, and she glanced back over her shoulder with a wink.

"To get donuts," she said, and I sagged a little in my chair.

"I don't eat donuts."

"I know," she said, and then winked, turning back to the door and waving over her shoulder; "they're to shut me up."

I propped my elbow on my desk and rested my temple against my fist, shaking my head. Between Mary and Dante, I was certain I was going to just have a stroke.

"Long morning, detective?" sergeant Langdon's voice piped up from the doorway, and I greeted him with a halfhearted wave.

"Long yesterday that didn't really end," I corrected, and he pulled up Mary's chair and sat down, propping his ankle on his opposite knee.

"Heard your long-lost brother was dragged in last night," he said.

"Don't remind me," I replied, rolling my eyes and taking another sip of my coffee. "I kind of wish he'd stayed dead."

"You don't mean that," Christopher chided, and I sighed.

No, I didn't mean that, but somehow believing he was dead was better than knowing he was the complete delinquent I had tried so hard to keep him from becoming.

"This him?" he asked, and I watched him pick up that photo from the corner of my desk again. He gave a low, appraising whistle. "Damn, you two look like twins."

"We are."

"Oh." He tilted the photo, then looked at me. "I think you've really fine-tuned your scowl since this was taken." I just looked at him, and he turned the photo to me. "This was a good start," he said, pointing to me in the photo, where I was sort of glowering at the camera; "you definitely had a good foundation, but over the years you've really brought out the true _soul_ of that Evil Eye." 

"Whenever you're done."

He set the photo down in front of me and got to his feet again, sliding a thin tri-folded stack of papers across my desk at me. "Here," he said, tapping two fingers on the folded paper and grinning at me. "I don't care if he's not the one who took out the captain, I want Wesker to go down. I know the captain would have wanted it, too. So don't say I never did anything for you." He chuckled to himself. "Nice bling, by the way," he added, gesturing at the photo again.

"Bling?"

"Catch you later!"

He turned and headed back out the door--he never stayed in the office long. I guessed that was a perk of being a detective instead of working a beat; I had a desk--and I waited until the door had swung closed before unfolding the paper and skimming it. A search warrant? For a pawn shop in the Bronx? It wasn't an address we'd checked out before, actually; it was in a different area of town.

There was a Post-it note stuck to the last page of the document, with Langdon's scrawl scratched across it. _'Look for unregistered weapons; someone ran out of cash collateral at the last poker game.'_ Well, criminal possession was a felony--it would get Wesker into arraignment court and would probably get him a hefty bail payment requirement. We could tie him to several smaller charges, too, and the more charges we could cram into his trial the longer he would be off the streets. The trick was going to be _finding_ him.

At this point, I didn't really care about him anymore, but I knew the captain had been tailing him. Maybe I could do the captain this last favor before getting back to figuring out who killed him.

I stood up and swirled my coat onto my shoulders, and then something in the photo caught my eye. I picked up the picture and brought it closer to my face, then found my mouth involuntarily twitching into a hint of a smile. Dante and I were both wearing what looked like big, chunky necklaces. Bling. Right. I'd forgotten about those. The photo had been taken shortly before our eighth birthday--Mother had given us those amulets. They were actually two halves of one whole antique talisman our father had brought to America when he'd immigrated from Italy, and he had entrusted it to her. When she had discovered that it broke into two identical pieces, she had then given the amulets to us. There was a symbolism to them that I hadn't quite appreciated at the time...

I wondered whatever happened to them. I hadn't brought mine to London with me; it was probably still at the house in the Hamptons.

Suddenly, I had to know if it was still there. I wasn't sure what it was that catalyzed the sudden need to know, but I grabbed the warrant, stuffed it in my pocket, then grabbed my keys out of the top drawer of my desk. I would catch up with Mary later. Right now, I had to make a small personal detour.

* * *

I had forgotten how long the drive between Manhattan and the Hamptons was. At least it was overcast--I don't think I could have tolerated direct sunlight sitting in traffic for an hour and a half. I was exhausted, irritated, and I was pretty sure I was developing a migraine, but by the time I really started to get angry at the rubberneckers and people driving ten under in the left lane, I had already passed the halfway point, and turning around would have been counterproductive.

I hadn't been back to the house in over a year. Something kept telling me I should have just sold it, since nobody lived in it anymore; it was really just taking up space. I couldn't quite bring myself to do it, though. My father had bought that house when he had come to America from Italy. My brother and I had grown up in that house. How could I just turn it over to someone else? Dante had always been the sentimental one, but somehow the thought of not _having_ that house anymore left a bad taste in my mouth.

It was one of the older properties in Southampton, built in the style of an English manor. The paint on the porch was flaking, and the windows all looked frosted with neglect and dust. In a way, I almost felt guilty for letting it fall into disrepair in the first place, but as compulsive as I may have been about keeping a clean apartment, I was no caretaker. I had no idea how to maintain a house: I had to call the super to change the filter in my air conditioner.

When I first came home from England to find the house empty, I hadn't bothered to take significant inventory. All I had known was my brother obviously hadn't been in the house for a long time. I had swept all of the unanswered letters into the hall closet and left for Manhattan. Only when I came to the apparent conclusion Dante had died did I go back to the house to see if any clues as to what had happened had been left behind. Most of the house had been left the way I remembered it, but a few things were visibly missing; they had all been expensive, though I couldn't recall anymore just what they were. It had looked like a robbery, and even now I had only a few more answers than I did then.

I wasn't here for answers this time, though. I was here for that amulet our mother had given me.

My old room was still untouched. It seemed odd to me that my room hadn't been burglarized when most of the rest of the house had. Granted, most of my possessions were of scholastic value rather than monetary, but there was still something suspicious about it. Walking into that house was like walking back in time, but walking into my old room was like walking into a wall. Almost everything I owned now had been bought new when I moved to Manhattan; I had brought very little with me when I moved to the city. It wasn't exactly that I had wanted to forget, but something in me didn't want the daily reminder of what we'd once had, and what I now lacked.

I checked the drawers in my dresser, a few boxes in the closet, and a handful of other places I figured the amulet would have been left, to no avail. Much more space-efficient than my brother, I had kept my room very neatly organized, but the amulet was nowhere I might have left it.

Reaching into my pocket to retrieve my phone when it rang, I shook my head hopelessly. Mary again.

"What."

"Where _are_ you?" she asked. "Salazar and I already ate all the donuts."

"I'm in the Hamptons," I replied, and she made a surprised noise.

"How dare you go to the Hamptons without me?" she gasped. "No fair taking a vacation in the middle of a case, Vergil."

"It's not a vacation," I sighed, kneading my brow again. That headache was coming back. "I had to pick something up from my parents' old house, that's all."

She harrumphed, and I was sure she had just folded her arms and now her cleavage was hanging inappropriately out of her shirt again. "Well, you could have _told_ me," she complained. "I'm supposed to know where my partner is."

"You're not my partner," I replied tersely, realizing an instant too late that it probably sounded meaner than I intended for it to.

She seemed undaunted. "That's not what you said last night," she said, and I could hear the grin in her voice. I rolled my eyes.

"I told Dante you were my partner because otherwise you would have been fair game," I explained long-sufferingly, and she sighed.

"You have absolutely no sense of humor," she said. I didn't know what she meant by that. "I appreciate your stepping up to defend my honor, though. Who knew you were such a Paladin?"

"We have to go back to the Bronx," I said, pressing on through the inane musings.

"Eh? Why?" She sounded disappointed, like she'd been hoping to join me in the Hamptons instead. I guessed I wouldn't have put that past her, to be honest.

"We have to check out some pawn shop by Exit 13," I said. "Langdon got us a warrant."

"Warrant?" she said. "There's more?"

"Your father had to have been following Wesker for _some_ reason," I told her. "He had taken a personal interest in him, and he would have wanted to catch him on every possible charge." I paused. "This one's right up your alley, anyway," I added, and she 'hmm'ed.

"Is that so?"

"Seems we're looking for more guns," I said. "Someone ante'd up with firearms instead of cash, and they were tracked to Delavall and Hollers."

"I guess we'll take what we can get." I heard her shift a bit, perhaps moving the phone from one shoulder to the other, and then she said, "When should I expect you back?"

"I'm leaving now," I said, digging my keys out of my pocket and heading back down the stairs to the main level of the house. "I should be back within two hours, providing the general populace remembers where the accelerator is."

"Then I'll meet you at Delavall and Hollers," she said. "No sense backtracking to pick me up."

"I didn't know you had a car," I said, furrowing my brow as I closed the front door behind me. I knew she wasn't foolish enough to take the subway into the Bronx.

"I _don't_ have a car," she said, and I paused, waiting for an explanation that didn't come. "See you there," she said, and then the call ended.

I folded the phone closed and shook my head, getting back into the car and giving the house one last look. I hadn't found what I was looking for, but that seemed to be a trend recently. Not looking forward to the drive back, I started the engine and turned out of the drive, headed back toward the freeway.

Hopefully the search at the pawn shop would be more fruitful.


	8. Chapter 8

Cold pizza was the best way to start the day. I knew not everyone agreed with me, but depending on where you ordered it from, some pies just got better after sitting overnight in the fridge. The grease-stained box sat to my right on the desk, only three pieces left. Number four was hanging from my mouth, bobbing up and down as I chewed it slowly. Barbeque Chicken was particularly good cold, so don't let anyone tell you differently.

I'd slept in until about 11 o'clock when I realized I should probably have dragged my ass into work. That was the best part about being my own boss, though--who was there to complain? I could give myself a raise any time I felt like it, the shop hours were whenever I wanted them to be, and the dress code was whatever I managed to throw on in the morning. Now, despite how that might have sounded, I did keep relatively regular hours. The store being closed for a few days without notice wasn't really that strange, though.

Now, I'm sure you're wondering just what it was I did for a living. If I told you, I'd have to kill you.

Always wanted to say that.

I rented out a warehouse by the water for my pawn shop--the best in the area, if anyone asked me--which they never did. I'd wracked up quite a collection over the years. It was finding the balance between buying things in and selling them out that left me in a constant limbo. Occasionally I'd bring something really nice out of the back, but I generally preferred to let the business run itself. From PlayStations to Grandma's Earrings--you'd find everything you were looking for and more things you weren't when you stopped by _Devil May Cry_.

I'd been meaning to fix that sign, too. Neon lights were fun, but it felt like there was always at least one part that was flickering and threatening to give me the finger on the way out.

My desk blocked the stairway to the loft, where I kept my most expensive collection pieces. Having only rolled out of bed just an hour before, I wasn't really feeling up to dealing with a bunch of customers yet. I'd acquired a nice, high-backed and old, but perfectly lived-in leather chair about two years prior--I would have brought it to my apartment if there was room. I lived in the shop half the time, anyway, so I guessed it didn't matter much. Leaning into the chair, my back to the desk, I had my feet propped up on a cabinet that sat against the wall as I finished off that piece of pizza, nibbling on the crust. Reaching lazily to the side, I padded around on the desk for another slice.

The bell that hung over the door rang. I didn't turn around.

"We're closed for lunch," I said, finally finding the slice and shoving that into my mouth as well. "If you gotta use the bathroom, it's in the back." I jerked my thumb toward the other side of the stairs. Whoever it was seemed at a loss, maybe from the fact I had a full-leather Batman suit a few feet from my desk, or maybe they just found the sound of my voice to be awe-inspiring. Either way, it was a little creepy. The silence was almost painful, and just as I was about to kick them out, I heard,

"What are _you_ doing here?"

It was my turn to instigate the awkward silence then. That voice was all too familiar and one I'd heard one too many times over the past 24 hours. My feet dropped to the floor as I spun around in the swivel chair, pizza still hanging from my mouth.

And there he was, looking infinitely more cranky than he had the night before.

"What are _you_ doing here?" I turned the question rightfully back at Vergil, speaking around the slice. Taking a bite, I frowned. "Are you stalking me or something? Not very police-esque behavior."

His mouth turned downward a notch. "Actually when it's official police business it's called surveillance, but let's not split hairs." Despite the fact I most definitely did _not_ invite him in, he came toward my desk. I put my hands up in the air like I was under arrest all over again.

"Hey, this is private property, officer. I told you I'm _closed_." I had spent part of the night in jail after coming into contact with my long-lost brother. Said brother _put_ me there, and the fight at my apartment hadn't helped much either. Needless to say, I _really_ wasn't ready for round two.

Vergil held up a folded wad of blue papers; I felt my stomach sink just a bit. I knew what those were--it was a search warrant. I hated to admit I was familiar with the process, but when you run a business like mine, people were always trying to sell off incriminating weaponry and whatnot in order to avoid prosecution. As unfriendly as I was towards the police, I never sunk that low. I knew the record for my shop was clean.

His cute partner was still standing in the doorway, looking a little confused. The news would have been infinitely nicer to hear from her.

"Here's what I'm doing here." He tossed the warrant onto my desk. It landed just next to my pizza box, and he folded his arms. "Your turn."

I sent him a glare and stuck the pizza back into my mouth before reaching for the warrant. I half expected it to burst into flames when I touched it, waiting to see if he had somehow set all this up. But considering he had given me back my girls the night before, I was a little unsure of just what to expect from him.

I tapped the papers out of the open envelope onto the desk. Thankfully the law required these guys to state exactly what they were looking for. I glanced over it quickly before tossing it back down.

"Don't have any custom .357 or 9-milimeters. That kinda thing is illegal, you know."

Vergil didn't seem nearly as amused at the irony as I was. "Yes, I know. You know what else is illegal?" Oh boy, a history lesson.

"Enlighten me," I said, leaning back and propping my feet up on my desk.

"Owning unregistered custom .50 Caliber Colts, let alone without a permit, but that didn't stop you." He picked up the discarded warrant and waved it at me. "Besides, we're not here for you, anyway. You really have a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, Dante." That was the first thing he'd said that I agreed with. He glanced at his partner, and so did I. She _was_ pretty cute. Didn't really take her for a wallflower down at the precinct, though. I ignored my brother for a moment and waved her over. 

"Gonna catch a cold standing in the doorway like that, babe." 

"I have a very strong immune system, but thanks for the consideration," she replied, taking a step into the shop. I offered her a grin, Vergil promptly moved to stand in my line of vision. Business as always.

"We're looking for the guy who owns this place, Giovanni Ru--" He paused, giving me a pointed look before glancing around. I lifted my brow. "Dammit, Dante how many names do you have?"

"Why tell you now and ruin the surprise?" I pulled a piece of pepperoni off and took a moment to enjoy it. "You're doing pretty good so far."

His partner stepped forward, finally away from the door, to come and stand next to my increasingly grumpy brother. They locked eyes for a moment; she tilted her head slightly, he didn't even flinch. I watched, resting both hands on my chest, waiting for the loser to run back in shame. Said loser ended up being Vergil, who rolled his eyes in defeat, giving a grunt as he folded his arms again. Cutie turned her attention back to where it should have been.

"Funny, you don't look much like a Giovanni to me. I always figured somebody with that name would be a mob boss or something... you know, rings on his fingers, wearing a three-piece suit." She grinned. I smirked. "I think Dante suits you much better."

"Call me whatever you want," I said, making a sweeping gesture, giving her a wink. "It's where you say it that's important."

Vergil rolled his eyes again, giving a low sound that could only mean disgust. Batman seemed to be more interesting than we were. I couldn't imagine why, considering Miss Cop had her top half-open. She folded her arms and tilted her head toward him.

"Not so identical on less tangible fields, are you?"

I had to chuckle at that. "The only thing we have in common is DNA, babe. If you're looking for a party, don't bother asking the guy in the waistcoat." I reclined again, practically making myself open for the invitation.

My brother piped up again, voice low but not really angry. "Is... this a bust of George Clooney?"

I gave a stilted laugh, scratching the back of my head. "Funny--that thing's been here forever and hasn't sold. Here I thought he was still a pretty popular guy."

"Could have something to do with the fact that he's made of marble. Nobody gives you a cold shoulder quite like a statue." Okay, I laughed. I liked this lady already.

"So, if you're Giovanni Russo--" Well, looked like she and Vergil worked together for a reason. "--and you don't have what we're looking for in this shop, then where did those weapons go?" She sat on the edge of my desk, her skirt riding up and showing much more of her thigh than I figured would be considered professional. Interesting. "Did you sell them?"

It took a little effort to tear my eyes away from her skirt-line. What were we talking about again? Oh, right. I sighed, dropping my feet to the floor. Leaning forward, I pointed at her with my half-eaten pizza.

"Being that you're a cop, I'm sure you know how popular .357s and Nines are around here. Everyone wants a concealable semi-automatic, babe. You expect me to remember just two of them?"

George must have been a boring conversation partner--though I thought that he and Vergil would have gotten along splendidly--because my brother turned around again, eyes narrowing at me. "All right, so we'll put the guns aside for a moment."

I waved my hands. Fine by me. In all honesty, if I was going to get pinned on some gang weapons, I wanted to go out with a bang. He should have seen the assault rifle I had in the back room.

"How many of the things missing from the house in the Hamptons have you sold here?"

I had one of those mental record scratch moments right then. I'm pretty sure my face showed it, too. Now _that_ seemed like a completely different investigation. I frowned, gesturing to the warrant.

"The paper says you're looking for guns, bro'. I don't remember Mom ever hanging around with a Glock." Vergil rolled his eyes, but his girlfriend looked just as confused as I was right then. I'd already established at the apartment I didn't want him in my business, but he had also said he was trying to figure out what happened to our parents.

I hated to admit what was missing from the house was because of me.

He grabbed the warrant, stuffing it into his coat pocket, and made a point of showing me his open palms. "Fine, off the record, then." He leaned over the desk, hands gripping the edge as he gave me a piercing look. I didn't back down, instead stuffing the rest of my pizza into my mouth all at once.

"You remember those amulets mother gave us when we were children, I'm sure..."

_Oh_. Oops.

"Yeah," I said, mouth full. Even if I'd wanted to lie, I was pretty bad at it. I was nice enough to swallow before I continued. "Why?" There was a lot I wanted to ask, but despite how talkative I could be, family business was just that-- _family_ business, and as cute as she was, Vergil's partner was decidedly _not_ my family.

"Because mine's gone." Heh heh. "I went back to the house earlier to look for it, and it was nowhere I would have left it." He paused, glancing at his partner. "Would you excuse us for a moment?" 

She quirked a brow, but slid off the desk a few seconds later. Looked like Batman was going to get some extra special attention. We both watched her saunter over to the suit, meeting eyes again almost on the same beat.

"Perhaps a little more privacy would behoove this conversation." He gestured up to the stairs with his chin. I glanced upwards, then nodded. Without a word, I pushed myself back from the desk. Just as we were about to ascend the stairs, though, I turned to the girl. She arched a brow as I leaned in.

"Just remember, babe--you break it, you bought it."

She did a pretty good impression of my brother right then, looking thoroughly unamused. "Thanks for the warning; I'll stick to breaking hearts."

Oh, _feisty._

I smiled, turning to hike up the single flight of stairs. A set of heavy chains hung across the pathway about half-way up, but I just stepped over them. They weren't really to keep people out, just to slow them down. The loft was where I kept all my expensive stuff, after all--I didn't want just anyone running around up there.

The door nudged open easily with a push from my elbow; I'd left it unlocked after I did my daily check to make sure everything was still accounted for. I didn't really keep a written inventory, half because I was lazy, and half because it would be incriminating. Besides, I happened to be pretty good at keeping my organized chaos in check.

I left the door open just long enough so Vergil could slip inside behind me before kicking it shut with my foot. Funny how just a few minutes prior he'd been threatening me with a search warrant. As angry as I still was with him, and confused by his random bout of compassion concerning my girls. If it had something to do with his quest to put our parents to rest, I'd be a lot more accommodating. He probably knew that.

The loft was a lot neater than the rest of the shop; most items were kept locked behind glass or bars, meaning only I had access. The larger weapons and some old paintings hung on the wall. I took to leaning back against the door, crossing my arms. Vergil took a moment to glance around, for once not looking completely appalled at the way I kept my space.

"You _really_ didn't know this place was mine, huh?" I didn't believe that for a second. He turned to face me again, sigh.

"No, I really didn't know." The distance between us closed, but stayed respectable enough. He looked me straight in the eye. "Come on, I'm a better liar than you are, but you could always tell when I wasn't being truthful--I didn't know. I don't care about your shop, all right?" I still didn't believe him. He spread his arms wide, gesturing about vaguely at my assortment of goods in the cases that surrounded us. "You can sell all the illegal junk you want in here and it's really none of my damn business. I didn't come here to arrest you again--you're enough of a pain in the ass when you're not in my hair--" I snorted. His fault for finding me, wasn't it? "--I was sent here on a lead after Wesker, not you."

Okay, that made me laugh. "You _really_ expect me to believe that?" Yeah, he said the world didn't revolve around me, and I'd give him that--most of the time, anyway--but I'd have to be an idiot to think he'd catch me twice in 24 hours on coincidence alone. "You would've known the second you saw my _name_ printed on that warrant of yours." My eyes narrowed. "Or did you forget it's the same one my apartment is listed under?"

I have to say, Vergil actually looked _embarrassed_ for a second. He pressed his thumb to the ridge of his eyebrow, for a moment seeming to forget we were in the same room together. Yeah, I _knew_ it would have been too easy, otherwise.

"I didn't forget." Yeah, that much was obvious. He finally met my eyes again, folding his hands behind his back. Maybe he never noticed it, but our dad always did the exact same thing when he was resigned to a discussion. "I didn't know that was the name on the apartment; that's not how I found you."

Ah, _there_ was the admission. I nodded. I knew it couldn't have just been--

Wait, what?

How could he _not_ have known? Giovanni Russo was a common name around here, yeah, and that was the idea, but how else could he have found me? Typing 'Dante' into Google sure as hell wasn't going to give him directions, either, not even from my Eco Footprint. I frowned, half expecting the answer to just come out of his mouth, and half not believing that he really didn't know that was my name. The only person who knew that it was Dante, not Giovanni, that lived there was--

Oh, dammit.

I threw my arms to the side. " _Trish_!" Oh, _blow_ me. It _had_ to have been her. It all suddenly made sense--I'd thought it was weird that she responded so quickly to me being in jail. News traveled fast, but not _that_ fast, even about a guy as devilishly handsome and popular as me. Vergil had told her. And in return she had led him to my place. I believed a serious heart to heart was in order. Rule one; don't invite estranged relatives to my place. He had _cleaned_ everything and I couldn't find a damn thing the next morning.

"Look, I don't know how you found Trish," I started, my hands as animated as the anger I felt rising up, "but next time, try knocking first, will ya?"

"Beatrice's new name was relatively easy to trace, and for the record I didn't go to her with finding you in mind. She offered me your address, and I accepted." He let a small grin slide over his face. "It's just as well, really. Those guns never would have survived the evidence room, after all. Two of the junior officers were already eyeing them."

No, blow _him._ While I appreciated him bringing Ebony and Ivory back, I wasn't about to bow down to that entitled smile he was showing. Oh, no.

"I suppose you're expecting me to be grateful, right?" I was, honestly. I mean, I was still pissed and that urge to punch him was resurfacing, but I was glad to have my guns again. 

"Why would I expect your gratitude? You've set no precedent for that."

I snorted. "Well, _thanks_." That still didn't mean he was invited over, though.

I turned my back to him, hands gripping the edge of one of the glass counters. Inside were various pieces of old, polished jewelry. Most were too pricey for the average customer, but the right people knew where to look. Turning just to the left was a tall case full of various custom weapons. Looking at that actually calmed me down a bit.

"Did you know," I started, straightening up as I left the counter, "that Dad wasn't all goody-goody either?" 

"What are you on about? I never said I thought our father was perfect." 'Might as well have,' was what I didn't say, but I heard the sound of his boots on the wood flooring as he followed me. He paused in front of a shirasaya sitting unused in the next case over--figured, he had always liked Japanese swords. 

Pulling a set of keys from my back pocket, I flipped through them--sometimes I felt like a high school janitor with the amount that I had--jamming the right one into the keyhole. I was more careful when I opened the door--it _was_ glass, after all. "Sure, he got your standard issue SIG P226, but..."

I could hear the irritation in his voice when he spoke. "I know he used handguns as well--he taught us both how to fire them, remember? So whatever you're getting at, it's completely unnecessa--"

I pulled out two custom pistols that, in all honesty, didn't seem too far off from my own. I turned around, flipping both around my fingers for a bit before pointing them forward at my brother. They weren't loaded. I made a point by ejecting a cartridge that wasn't there.

"He was also packing these." That shut him up. "Luce and Ombra," I said, introducing the new guns. He didn't really look afraid, more like very interested and surprised. He reached out for Ombra--the left-handed one, I noticed with a small grin to myself. We had played around a bit with the guns dad had been issued for work when we were kids, against mom's wishes. He had always shot left-handed.

"These are a lot like yours," he mused. True. They were a little more battle-worn and not as sexy, but pretty close. When I found them, I knew I wanted some too. Of course I wasn't just going to take my dad's old guns--I didn't want any handouts from him, even post-mortem--so I had some made for myself Luce and Ombra were nice guns, for sure, but Ebony and Ivory would always be my babies. 

He tested Ombra's weight in his hand before giving me a demonstration of his pistol prowess, spinning it on his finger and pointing it sideways at me when she came to a stop. If anyone had walked in right then, it probably looked like were going to blow each other's heads off. So, he wasn't washed up, just stuck up. That seemed fitting.

"They're modified Colts, too, aren't they?" He spun the gun again and shook his head. "I wish you'd bothered to read the letters I sent you from England." Taking hold of her barrel, he turned Ombra back around to me. I took her grip, giving him a curious look over. "It seems Father kept more than just customized assault weapons a secret from us over the years."

"Letters?" I asked, giving the girls one last turn before putting them back safely in the display cabinet. They weren't for sale. After fixing the lock back up, I lifted a brow as I faced him. "What letters?"

Vergil had an awesome Disappointed Parent Look that he seemed to like to throw out a lot those days. "Dante, I wrote home every two weeks after I left. It was a nice touch, piling them all up in front of the doorway so that I would come home to find the stack, by the way. Really added to the 'my brother's dead' effect."

Oh.

I was having a lot of those 'oh' moments since he showed up again. Never really cared for those.

" _Hey_." I was up in his face, and as usual he didn't back down. He simply looked irritated to have me in his personal space, leaning back just a tad to give him more room. "Two days after you left, so did I." 

It had been over a month prior that I decided I was leaving too; even with Trish, the house was too big and too empty. I couldn't take it, especially knowing that he was going to be gone for a good four years or so, if he didn't decide to stay over there permanently. I wasn't stupid--Europe was the kind of place that really suited him. 

"And I never went _back._ " 

That was a lie, or a partial one. I never stepped inside again, yes, but there were a few nights, especially towards the beginning, that I sat on the doorstep for a good few hours, trying to convince myself that going in was taking a step backwards in my own life. Trish had collected me the first few times, but only when I called. Guess I always needed someone around.

"Stop trying to pull this whole 'death' thing on me--that was your conclusion, not mine." A sucky one, but still not my intention. "I'm not _that_ much of a jackass to fake my own death."

"That doesn't change the fact that it looked that way." He didn't raise his voice. I gave up. Throwing my hands in the air, I backed off instead, showing him my back once again.

"Whatever." It didn't matter, anyway--he was going to think whatever he wanted. How was I supposed to know what it looked like? I had cut that part out of my life, supposedly for good, and look where it got me. I heard him sigh and saw his reflection on the glass case in the middle of the room as he leaned against it, his arms folded.

"Well, what you would know if you'd kept in touch is that I tried doing a little detective work on my own in Europe before I ever went to the academy. You know Father was secretive about the life he left behind in Italy, but I figured that someone as influential and wealthy as he'd apparently been would likely still have some ties overseas." That actually got my attention. I circled the other side of the case, allowing it to put some space between us. Dad had never wanted to talk about family over there--he said all we needed was what we had. It had been a little frustrating, but I had been happy, so why would I care? Vergil had always been the one who demanded more information.

"And?" I asked, tired of the pause. He would never admit it, but my brother had his own flair for dramatics when he wanted.

"There was nothing."

Well-placed dramatics at that. 

" _Nothing?_ " My eyebrows knit together. I'd wanted to disappear, too, and had done a pretty good job of it, apparently. But our dad? To completely erase him in another country... _that_ was weird. "Maybe you didn't look hard enough," I offered, not really caring how it may have sounded. It just didn't seem possible, considering how much weight Dad had been able to throw around once moving to New York.

He turned to face me as well, giving me another patented glare--I was getting tired of that look. "I assure you, I looked plenty hard. I spent an entire summer in Italy, just going through public archives and birth and death records on microfilm." He suddenly looked like he'd drank too much of that coffee his precinct had given me--served him right. "Have you ever tried to read microfilm in another language? It's bad enough in English." 

What the hell was microfilm? 

"Zavattoni's not exactly a common name, but I couldn't find one person in Rome, Naples, Florence, Venice, even Milan, with that surname. Not a single address or phone listing. So I dug a little deeper."

This time I gave _him_ an impatient look--what was with these dramatic pauses? 

"There were no records of any Zavattonis in the national archives, Dante. No one by that name had ever lived, ever been married, or ever _died_ in the entire country of Italy."

I didn't bother schooling my expressions right then. I frowned, locking my jaw. I almost stupidly suggested that maybe the name wasn't Italian, but thought better of it. What else _could_ it be? I rested my elbows on the counter.

"Maybe it's a fake name?" I suggested, scraping the bottom of the barrel at that point. Dad could have made it up, couldn't he have? But that just begged the question _why_. "There's no way an entire family just stopped _existing_."

Vergil shook his head. "There are a few Zavattonis here in the states--even a few here in New York. However none of them could be traced back any further than arrival in the United States--there were absolutely no ties to any addresses or family connections overseas."

Well. Damn.

I had no idea what to say for a while, letting it sink all in. I had never really given much thought to our extended family--all I really knew were our grandparents on our mother's side, and I'd lost contact with them when I left home. They were on the other side of the country, anyway, some truck stop in northwestern Washington state. Only once were we ever exposed to dad's life before he immigrated, and that was an unexpected visit in itself. Apparently we had an uncle, Uncle Enzo, who arrived just a day before mom was murdered. He left just as quickly as he came--I partially blamed him for it, like somehow he was supposed to have been sent to protect her when I couldn't.

Vergil should have at least found him over there, right? It made the past feel like a ghost; half of me wondered how much was real.

I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. All I could do was sigh and scratch the back of my head.

"Man..." I finally said after a long moment. "...What the hell does _that_ mean?"

For once, my brother wasn't looking his best; he didn't look cool _or_ confident. He was pretty flustered himself, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. "I... don't know what that means. I tried again the following summer, I looked for our uncle--Enzo, you remember." I nodded--I guessed our thought processes weren't so off all the time. He shook his head again. "No sign of him, either. Plenty of Enzos, but no Zavattoni. I even looked up a few of the Enzos I ran across, but they were never him." That got a brow raise from me--good job not being a creep, bro.

"So you hit a brick wall head on going 80," I said, straightening up. "And you came here expecting me to know something?" This was all news to me, really, and he knew that.

He shook his head again, eyes with some mild contempt. "No, I came here because I was given a warrant to search the pawn shop of Giovanni Russo." He gestured absently to the various weapons around us--all unregistered and most illegal either way. The look he gave me was a little _too_ suspicious for my taste. He clicked his tongue, but that was it, and shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned back on the counter, a posture that I rarely saw on him. Just what kind of crap was he trying to pull, huh?

...He wasn't going to take my stash, was he? His warrant was for those two types of pistols, which I had only a few in stock, but they were mostly legal. 

Then he smiled. Rather, he _almost_ smiled if you knew where to look.

"But obviously he doesn't have what we're looking for. Back to the drawing board."

What a dick. That definitely wasn't genetic.

"Remind me to punch you again sometime." It was a lame threat, but a threat still, and that was the point. I huffed, crossing my arms, and made my way to the door. "We done here? Chicken gets weird when it's sitting at room temperature."

He looked a little confused for a moment. I sure as hell hoped he didn't think _he_ was getting any of my hard-earned breakfast, what with the wonderful coffee he had to look forward to once he left. I shook my head, reaching for the handle when his hand found my forearm. His grip wasn't tight, but it was still unwanted. I guessed we weren't finished.

My hand paused on the knob when he spoke. "My amulet. You know where it is, don't you?" It wasn't a question.

"Uh..." Well, in a manner of speaking... "No?"

He didn't miss a beat. 

"'No' as in no you haven't seen it since we were kids or 'no', you don't know where it is because it's somewhere in your controlled tornado downstairs?" I felt his fingers tighten on my arm. I yanked it free.

"It isn't downstairs. You think I'd keep something like that next to George Clooney?" Even though he hadn't hurt me, old habits died hard, and being the little brother, I had to rub my wrist like he had. Sure, there were no parents to scold him for being mean, but the sentiment was the same. He rolled his eyes.

"I don't know, it's hard to tell what you do and don't keep down there. So is it up here, then?" Uh. "Is there another room?" Not with an amulet. "I want that amulet back, Dante; I know you must have taken it from my room when you left." Maybe. "Return it to me at once." Damn.

Well, that had turned awkward in half a second. Ignoring the non-existent pain in my wrist, I rubbed the back of my neck, unable to make eye contact. I said I was a poor liar and I meant it.

"Look--" This was decidedly more difficult than telling him to get out of my life. It was a lot easier to feel like he'd wronged me, it pained me to admit I may have done the same to him. "--I don't really... _have_ it. I don't know where it is, now." 

He looked curious for a second, confused, unsure, and then angry all at once. He was just a box full of emotion that day. 

"You don't know where it is... _now_. You _sold_ it?" he asked through clenched teeth.

I had to try and explain myself. "It was--"

"How could you _sell_ that?" he interrupted.

"--look, I took it a long time ago--"

"Our _mother_ gave us those amulets, Dante--"

"Yeah, I _know_. That's why I--"

"--they're not just paltry costume jewelry for you to hawk to pay for your weekend boozing hobby."

I sneered. "Stop putting words into my m--"

"Who did you sell it to?"

We both stopped for a moment, eyes locking. Neither one of us refused to look away and, for a moment, I forgot how to blink. How could I try and explain myself? Yeah, I had screwed up--I shouldn't have done it. I would have been just as pissed, if not more than he was, if he had done the same thing to me. My reasoning was messed, but it was still there; Vergil had left the country and didn't even think to bring Mom's most precious keepsake with him. It obviously didn't mean nearly as much, so I took it.

Yeah, the logic of a 17 year-old was hard to compete with. Hindsight was always twenty-twenty.

"I don't know," I admitted, shoulders slumping just a tad.

There was a heavy silence that fell between us. Even if I didn't already know I deserved it, his disappointment wasn't easy to take right away. 

"You... don't know." Vergil looked away, rubbing his temples. I felt like I was eight all over again. Vergil was replaced by my dad and I had that large sword sitting behind me, even though we weren't supposed to touch it. I never really listened.

"I suppose I shouldn't ask whether or not you keep record of your sales, I think I already know the answer." He was right--I only took cash, anyway, and not keeping track of my transactions was just a way to save myself in the end when less than amiable previous owners came knocking. That, and I was kind of lazy.

Another moment passed. I clenched and unclenched my fingers, unsure of exactly what to do. I was still upset, still _not_ sure how it was that five years had gone and how I was suddenly back into the same groove with my estranged brother. I really wasn't sure how I felt about that. This was the part of my life I had wanted to never deal with again, wasn't it?

Now what?

"Get it back." Anger turned to urgency at a pin drop. I frowned, bringing my attention back to Vergil. "No one can have that amulet, Dante. It's mine. It belongs to a son of Sparda." He jabbed his finger into my shoulder--a little harder than necessary, if you asked me. "And it wasn't yours to sell."

I hated it when he was right.

I knocked his finger away from me, but still held my hands up in surrender. "Alright, _alright_." I had no idea what I was going to do. "I'll see what I can do, okay?" Really, what else was there? "It was just a week ago, I think, so maybe the guy's still around." At least I thought it was a week ago. Sometimes they tended to blur together depending on if I was, as he so eloquently put it, indulging in my weekend boozing hobby. 

"See to it that you do," he said with finality. It wasn't helping my mood or the cause, but I was sure it made him feel better.

"Just be careful where you point that thing," I said, jamming my own finger into his shoulder for emphasis. "You could put someone's eye out." He narrowed his eyes before rolling them. I was glad to at least have the final word. Yanking the door back open, we left the loft, once again hopping over the chains in the way (they were pretty easy to trip on, but if he did it was his own damn fault).

Over the railing I spotted Vergil's partner sitting on the edge of my desk again, holding a small picture frame in her hands. That made me stop mid-descent, causing my brother to nearly bump into me. The only photo I ever kept on my desk was of my mom, and honestly, I didn't appreciate people touching it, even cute girls. It bothered me, yeah, but I tried not to let it show. She glanced up when she heard our footsteps cease, placing the picture back down where it belonged.

"You boys get all your personal business attended to?" she asked, uncrossing and recrossing her legs in the other direction, nice legs that they were. I offered her a grin and a lazy shrug of my shoulders, starting back down the stairs.

"We're still here, aren't we?" Implying that, of course, _all_ of our personal business was probably never going to resurface. But I preferred it that way, some scabs should have remained unpicked. I didn't bother looking over to my brother once we hit the main floor, instead just reaching into my pizza box and grabbing another slice.

"See anything you like?" I asked, making a motion with the pizza towards the shop at whole.

She lifted her chin a bit and straightened out one of her legs, gesturing to the Batman suit and bust display with the tip of her boot. "I'm rather taken with George, I gotta say."

"He's free this weekend, you know." I raised a brow.

She raised one back. "He charges the rest of the week?"

I grinned. "Touché." Plopping down in my chair again, I spun it around so that it faced the desk. Turning to my brother, I gave him a nod. "I like this one."

Vergil looked right past me towards his partner. "Don't feel special; he likes anything with legs and breasts." Always ruining my fun. That was why he had never gotten laid in high school.

She grinned--to him, not me. "If that includes fried chicken, it might be love." I _really_ liked this one.

He just rolled his eyes. "Please don't encourage him..."

In all honesty, I didn't need encouragement. He probably knew that, too. Giving a toast with my pizza, I took a bite, idly casting my eyes to the warrant that he had left on the opposite side of my desk. Throwing my feet up beside his partner, I asked, mouth half-full, "So, the hunt for your guns goes elsewhere, huh?" I scratched the tip of my nose, swallowing. "They the murder weapons or something? Seems kind of like a lame death for a big important police captain."

I thought I saw something flash in her eyes--anger, maybe?--as she slid off the desk, holding her chin high. "That big important police captain was stabbed, not shot. The guns are just another nail in Wesker's coffin."

Prosecuting for a longer sentence, even about a different charge. I saw where that was going; it just showed how messed up the justice system had become that you couldn't hold a guy on murder but you could for selling some kids candy on the street corner. I was biased, I knew, but considering there had never been a single lead or reason for my mom's death, and before then my dad's, what did you really expect? Jaded and worn by the world--that was me. I thought it fit the image pretty well.

"Must have a pretty weak case if you guys are scrounging off illegal weapons possessions." Maybe I shouldn't have tried to push my luck on that front, but considering the fact that Vergil--for whatever reason--had returned my guns to me, I felt home free. "Wesker never seemed like a guy to kill indiscriminately, though--maybe that boss of yours was sticking his nose in too deep. You guys do that from time to time."

I thought I saw Vergil's face go a little pale for a second. I cast him curious look, but was interrupted by a whirlwind of breasts and suddenly a finger a few inches from my face. It was better than the barrel of a gun, I supposed, but somehow it felt twice as deadly. I was waiting for some sharp, undeserved words to come with it, but her arm fell only seconds later. She narrowed her eyes at me and shook her head.

"It was that boss of ours' dying wish that Wesker pay for what he'd done. We're going to see to it that he does pay for it. _All_ of it." She glared. "I don't expect you to understand." With that, she stomped off towards the door.

I was becoming quite popular with the awkward silences crowd over the past day. It took Vergil clearing his throat to break it as his partner moved to grab the door handle.

"I see you still really have a way with the ladies, Dante."

I ignored him, dropping my feet to the floor and leaned over my desk. "Hey, wait up!" I'd been turned down by women before, but I usually had an idea of why. "I didn't even catch your name."

She just yanked the door open, but paused, her fingers tightening more than they should have on the old metal. I was glad she wasn't sort of femmebot, because the glare she shot me then would have incinerated me on the spot.

"I don't _have_ a name."

Where did my cute new girlfriend go? "Well then, what _should_ I call you?

She huffed, turning around. "I don't care, whatever you want."

I gave up. "Whatever, Lady."


	9. Chapter 9

After exchanging a noncommittal shrug with my brother, I darted out of the shop after Mary, wondering what in the world had gotten into her. I didn't really care if Dante was offended--I was confident he'd been shot down once or forty times in his life--but Mary's anger had been so swift and sudden that I had to admit I was curious. Could it be that there was in fact someone else who understood just how sempiternally vexatious my brother was?

"Wait, Mary, stop," I called, and she whirled, shooting me a fierce glare before the angry expression died and she waved her hands quickly, like she was trying to dry them off.

"If you're going to scold me for being rude to your brother you can go to Hell," she snapped, and I actually gave an amused scoff.

I shook my head. "Be as rude as you like: what goes around comes around, and he's got all the polite delicacy of a drunken German with Tourette's."

She actually gave a helpless laugh, and sat down on the motorcycle in the parking lot. For a moment, I considered asking if that was a good idea--who did the bike belong to? I wasn't particularly interested in getting into an altercation with a biker from the Bronx, but when she swung her leg over the seat and reached into her... cleavage... to retrieve a key, my eyebrows lifted, and it had nothing to do with the fact that she apparently had a storage compartment in her bosom.

"That's your bike?" I shook my head. I had never imagined Mary was the type of woman to know how to ride a motorcycle, let alone _own_ one.

She looked at me, then leaned back on the seat, bracing herself on one arm. I was quite sure that there was nothing ladylike about riding a motorcycle in a skirt, but social graces never seemed to be terribly high on her to-do list. "I told you I didn't have a car," she said, and then she glanced away, sitting up again.

There was a beat of silence, and I folded my arms, resting against the side of my car. "So what was that?" I asked, nodding my head toward Dante's shop. "I always knew you were a bit mercurial, but that seemed a tad out of the blue."

She scowled at the handlebars. "He's a jerk," she said tersely. "I knew he was uncouth from the moment we brought him down to the station, but I never imagined he'd have such disrespect for the police force--he's your _brother."_

I shook my head. "Dante has very little respect for that which he doesn't understand or agree with," I assured her; "even more so if it's something I stand by and condone."

Despite all our fundamental likenesses, there were plenty of things Dante and I had never seen eye to eye on, and I supposed it was no surprise that that remained so. When we had been children, Dante had thought it was 'cool' that our father was a police officer, but it seemed that had changed significantly when Father had died. I could understand that he probably felt that the force had let him down when they failed to catch the people responsible for our parents' deaths, but that was no reason to condemn what Mary and I were doing.

"He doesn't know the captain was your father," I assured her, and she snorted derisively.

"Like it makes a difference." She jammed the key into the ignition and twisted it a little more sharply than was necessary. The bike roared to life, and Mary cast me a quick glance. "My father's funeral is tomorrow at ten," she said, and the look in her eyes was neither grief nor apprehension nor anything else I could quite identify. She almost looked indignant. "I'm sure he would have wanted you to attend," she said, the attempt at a reassuring smile turning out more like a grimace; "you were always his favorite student."

I wasn't sure I thought that was true, but I nodded anyway. "I'll go," I said. "I owe him that much."

"This isn't about obligation, Vergil," she said with a helpless shake of her head as she revved the bike. "It'll be at Agni & Rudra Funeral Home on Second Avenue." She paused a moment, then peered at the dials on the bike's console. "Would you mind if I didn't go back to the office today?" she asked, and I frowned.

"That's not my call, Mary," I replied, and she sort of flinched. I paused, then added, "You're not even on my precinct's payroll, so what you do with your time isn't up to me."

Her shoulders shook with faint laughter I couldn't hear over the bike, and then she met my eye again, pushing the bike backward to turn and head out of the parking lot. "See you tomorrow," was all she said, and then the bike pulled away with a roar.

I watched her pull away, noting that she wasn't even wearing a helmet, the fool. Something wasn't quite right, and I was irked that I couldn't put my finger on what it was. While I had known Mary a long time, I hadn't really known her _well,_ so it wasn't really my place to assume she was acting strangely, but her little outburst in Dante's direction had definitely been fueled by more than mere irritation with his irreverence. I was _plenty_ familiar with Dante's irreverence, and that most recent display hadn't even registered on the radar.

Turning, I glanced back at his shop, peering through the tall window at the front and catching his eye where he was still inside, reclining at his desk. Holding his gaze for a moment, I furrowed my brow a bit and then tugged open my car door, starting the engine and backing out of the parking lot before I even put my seatbelt on. Suddenly I wanted out of that parking lot and as far away from my brother as I could feasibly be.

* * *

Sunday, 13November, 10:18:02  
Agni and Rudra Funeral Home, 2nd Avenue, Manhattan, NY

I hadn't been to a funeral since my mother had died, but my intense hatred for the pomp and circumstance of the whole ceremony hadn't diminished. I would never understand the insatiable need for human beings to draw so much attention to death and loss--it was bad enough to lose a loved one, but to have a ceremony for the occasion seemed almost cruel.

Mary looked tired, though whether it was grief, frustration, or genuine lack of sleep that gave her eyes that harried edge and pulled the corners of her mouth just a little too far downward was uncertain. She was wearing that white pinstriped suit jacket again, though she had deigned to wear pants instead of the almost ridiculously short skirt she'd worn with it last time. I wasn't sure if I was grateful she had chosen to tone down her wardrobe on account of the affair, or if I was just honestly concerned she was breaking down because she actually wasn't hanging halfway out of everything she was wearing.

I didn't sit. Strangely, neither did Mary. The fact that there were no open chairs shouldn't have mattered--considering that she was the deceased's daughter, she could have easily uprooted someone, but she chose not to. I wasn't certain what was stranger to me: the fact that she chose not to sit, or the fact that she chose to stand beside _me_ of all people, sort of hiding in the shadows at the back of the room.

The main room of the funeral home was tightly packed with people. The captain hadn't been a particularly popular man, so the turnout was a bit surprising to me. Tugging my thoughts back from where they had been wandering to seek refuge from the dull and boring eulogies the other precinct captains were reciting, I shook my head faintly; they never sounded sincere. Before the ceremony had started, I had been asked me to say a few words, and I had declined, none-too-graciously. They probably assumed it was too soon, that I was grieving the loss of my colleague or some such explanation for my vehement refusal--the truth was I just hated funerals, and they were lucky I was attending at all.

Jonathan Arkham had been a strange man--tall, almost skeletally thin, with bony hands and fingers that looked like the leafless branches of ghostly trees in winter. His skin had been oddly sallow, like maybe his liver never quite worked properly, and he had the same heterochromia Mary did, his eyes an odd pinkish-red and a bright pale blue. It hadn't been his peculiar appearance that had made most of the officers at the station house tended to shy away, though. Jonathan Arkham had just been an unusual man, on all fronts. He'd had strange inflection, drawing out his vowels almost as if he was savoring the sound of them, and he walked with the sort of dramatic purpose one expected of a diva on Broadway, with wide, sweeping steps and an almost fluid motion of his spine. Falling into the line of his gaze could almost send an electrical shock through the body.

Even I had found him... different, and I certainly had a higher threshold for strangeness than most of my colleagues (growing up with Dante, it had become necessary to desensitize myself to the more bizarre things in life). However, he had been my mentor in the academy, my captain on the job, and I had never allowed his relative esotericism to get in the way of that. Perhaps that was why I had always seemed to be his 'favorite'--a lofty title I had never sought directly.

I presumed that the large turnout at the funeral had more to do with people wanting to skip out on a day's work than any real esteem for the captain. It irritated me more than I let on. I noted absently that the service was closed-casket, but had never supposed the captain was so alarming to look at that such a thing would be necessary. He had been stabbed in the chest, but it was a wound that was easily hidden beneath clothing. Why was the casket sealed?

Before I could really ponder on the subject, my phone vibrated from the inside pocket of my coat. I jumped, startled, and Mary glanced up at me. Grateful for the chance to excuse myself, I backpedaled and then turned for the door, pulling the phone from my pocket and leaving the main room of the funeral home.

"Yes," I said softly as I entered the hall, and glanced over my shoulder when the door behind me didn't close. Mary poked her head out into the hallway after me. "Yes," I said into the phone, and then nodded. "Okay, I'm on my way."

Sliding the phone closed again, I put it back into my pocket, and Mary folded her arms.

"So, Holmes, is the game afoot?" she asked, and I frowned.

"Something like that, Watson," I replied, brushing some phantom fuzz from the lapel of my coat. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to duck out early."

She shook her head. "What's going on?" she asked, and I absently swept a hand back through my hair.

"That stupid useless tip my brother gave me that day in the box," I said, allowing half a grin to tug at my lips, "suddenly turned out to be not so useless after all." I made a vague gesture with one hand in a general northbound direction. "Looks like there's a little get-together going on at Gleason and Taylor as we speak."

"I'll get my coat," Mary said, and turned to duck back inside.

I grabbed her arm. "Mary, the funeral isn't over."

She flinched, the same grimace on her face she had made yesterday, tugging her arm away. "So?"

I shook my head. "You can't just _leave,"_ I said, making a face. For me to leave was one thing, but this was her own father's funeral!

She straightened her back, her lower lip jutting out a bit in that classic angry pout of hers. "Standing around listening to people bullshit about what a great man my father was won't change the fact that he's dead," she said sharply, gesturing at the door. "Being in there to hear about all the things people claim were 'good times' with my father won't _change_ anything, Vergil." She folded her arms then. "Stopping Wesker and his men is what my father died for. I need to know why, and standing around here won't get me any closer to that."

I held my hands up in something like surrender, but said nothing. Clearly there would be no deterring her; I wasn't about to try. I knew when to fold my hand. She had a point, at that: her father had died because he had gotten too close to something, that much was obvious. Who was I to stop her from finding out what that was? I endeavored not to be a _deliberate_ hypocrite.

"Fine," I said, and turned to head down the hall. "Get your coat and meet me in the parking lot."

"If you leave without me I'll key your car next time I see it," she said stiffly before ducking back into the main room.

I didn't doubt the threat for one second.

* * *

The junction of Avenues Gleason and Taylor wasn't exactly an inviting one. The road was cracked and badly in need of repair, and the buildings were all but falling apart. Aside from a few shady-looking apartment buildings, the only establishment of any significance was what looked like a run-down shelter for battered women on the corner. I was told that was where we were headed, and something about the whole thing just made my stomach turn.

During the downtime we'd had over the past week or so, I had been doing a lot of reading up on our old friend Wesker. The captain had kept quite a file on him. His parents had been scientific geniuses who had worked for some hush-hush genome-project facility in California that nobody could ever seem to confirm or deny the existence of. His exact IQ hadn't been tested, but paperwork indicated it could have easily crested 180. He had gone into the same field as his parents, with a specific twist toward virology, but had inexplicably left California at the age of 19 to head to New York. From there, he had all but fallen off the face of the earth.

What I wanted to know was, why the hell had a scientific genius left California to come to New York and open up pawn shops in the Bronx? It just didn't add up--Wesker had all the makings of a super-villain, not to put too juvenile a point on it, and yet he was biding his time with poker hands? It didn't make any sense.

"This place is creepy," Mary mused from the passenger seat as I put the car in park.

"It's the Bronx," I replied; "what'd you expect?"

She shook her head. "No, I know," she said, "but I've _been_ to the Bronx before. Something about this place is just creepy."

"Fear is just a chemical reaction catalyzed in the thalamus," I told her, opening my door. "There are four backup teams standing by. There's nothing to worry about."

She got out of the car and closed the door, leaning on the roof to peer at me as I did the same. "How _do_ you handle something you can't explain away, Verge?" she asked, and I arched one eyebrow.

"Everything has a logical explanation, Mary," I replied, and I noted she flinched again, ever so slightly, as if someone had pulled a single hair from her head. The grimace was gone in an instant, replaced with her usual unimpressed frown.

"Sometimes I wonder why I bother talking to you at all," she grumbled, and I assured her I wondered the same thing.

"Let's just get this over with," I said then, straightening the collar of my coat. "The sooner we figure out what Wesker's up to, the sooner we can wrap this case up, and the sooner you don't have to bother talking to me anymore."

A flicker of injury snaked across her expression, like my words had hurt her feelings, but that didn't make any sense: it was only the truth. Once her father's case was closed, she would go back to narcotics at the 17th, and I would go back to my two-year headache that I just couldn't solve, and neither of us would have to deal with how infuriatingly contrary the other was anymore. I didn't mince words, but I wasn't often cruel on purpose. Mary needed to learn that or this wasn't going to be the last time she got her pride bruised.

Well, my candor and her sensitivity thereto notwithstanding, we had a job to do. We could talk about our feelings later. With a wave of one hand, I motioned for her to follow me and I headed for the unmarked patrol car a few parking spots away.

"What've we got?" I asked the uniformed officer who stepped out of the car. He showed me the display on an infrared sensor.

"Looks like five bodies inside, all adults," he said. "They've been in there for about forty-five minutes now--no major activity."

"Any visuals?" I asked, and he shook his head.

"I sent a few of my guys around the back," he said, "but the windows are either boarded up or blacked out. They must have gone in through a back or side entrance we didn't notice." The officer looked a little hangdog at that, but continued after a short hesitation. "We dunno who they are or what they've been up to, but we thought you'd want to know."

"No, that's good," I said. "Regardless of who they are and what they're doing, they're trespassing." I pointed at the side of the building. "The place is condemned, so even if they're Eagle Scouts discussing how to turn this city around, they're breaking the law."

"Knowing you, you'd _book_ a bunch of Eagle Scouts, too," Mary remarked, and I rolled my eyes.

"Either way, I say we interrupt their little 4H meeting," I said, ignoring her words and turning back to the uniformed officer. "Five of them and twelve of us sounds like decent odds to me."

"We'll move on your mark, then," the uniform said, and headed for the surveillance truck parked just down the street to round up the rest of the reinforcements.

I turned to Mary. "You ready?" I asked.

She glanced up from where she had been checking the magazine on one of her pistols. "I've been ready for this for two weeks," she assured me, putting the gun back in its holster and tugging her Skorpion from where it was lashed to her leg. I found myself wondering how she'd managed to get a permit for that thing--submachine guns were hardly standard issue. She ejected the clip to check it, too, and then slammed it back together, resting it over her shoulder a moment as she lifted her eyebrows at me. "Were we gonna go, or were you just gonna stand there all day?"

My eyebrows knit together a bit--I still wasn't convinced that she was entirely okay, but it wasn't my place to pry. I looked past her, toward the van, where the backup teams were filing toward the building. One of the officers had a small battering ram tucked beneath his arm. I had a feeling that whoever was on the other side of those doors wasn't going to open up because we asked nicely.


	10. Chapter 10

Contrary to what people might have thought, interrogating suspects was one of my least favorite parts of the job. It was never as interesting or eventful as it was on TV, and despite Mary's goading me about it, I wasn't going to try the Bad Cop routine on the man in front of me. It never worked with this type of suspect.

Logic dictated that there were only two types of suspects: those who were innocent and those who were guilty. Of the guilty ones, I had found, however, that they tended to fall into three further categories: those who knew they were going down, those who knew we had nothing on them, and those who knew they were going down but were going to attempt to bullshit us into believing that we had nothing on them anyway. The man at the table in front of me was of the lattermost type, which I personally found to be the most aggravating to deal with, and he was really starting to get on my nerves.

We had brought all five of the trespassers we'd found in the building at Gleason and Taylor back to the station house with us, but it was immediately obvious that the skinny man with the sunken eyes and thin, shaggy hair was the one in charge. He carried himself with an authority the others lacked. The first thing he had done when we had dragged him into the box was ask for his lawyer, which told me immediately that he knew he'd done something wrong. More irritating than his immediate embrace of his Miranda right to council, though, was the fact that he outright _refused_ to tell us his name. That not only confirmed that he knew that he'd been up to no good, but chances were that once we _had_ his name, it would be less than eight easy steps to getting him booked.

I did so enjoy a challenge, but I had a feeling this wasn't going to be one worth writing home about.

"You know, I get really tired of repeating myself," I told him, my hands folded together behind my back as I paced around the table. "You would think with how often we tell people that cooperation really does work in your favor that someone would have passed the word along by now."

The man at the table looked unfazed. "Whether I cooperate or not makes no difference," he said smoothly; "there is nothing you can say to me that will convince me to tell you anything without the strict guidance of my lawyer." He folded his arms over his chest--oh, so I had him on the defensive already? He must have done something _quite_ unsavory.

I paused in my steps and leaned forward over the table. "I fail to see how divulging your name will change anything," I said. "We're going to find out either way."

He met my gaze coolly, his pale blue eyes shadowed beneath his stringy blond hair. "I think it's much more fun to frustrate you," he said, smiling faintly. The hair in his face combined with the irritatingly smug attitude reminded me of Dante, and only succeeded in annoying me further.

I inhaled slowly through my nose, then turned to glance toward the two-way mirror. "Can I have that list?" I asked, my attention on the mirror, and out of the corner of my eye I saw the man in the chair squirm a bit. The door opened, and Mary leaned in the ingress, a tri-folded piece of paper in her hand.

"I found six," she said, and I took the paper from her, unfolding it and holding it at the top and bottom at arm's length as if I were reading an official proclamation.

"Six," I echoed, and looked at the man in the chair. "Well, that means I have about a 17% chance of guessing right on the first try."

He shifted in his seat, his brow furrowed in discomfort, but made no reply. I regarded Mary where she stood in the doorway, and then leaned against the wall. The captain had compiled a list of Wesker's known accomplices, but we had never had faces to go with the names. It seemed it was time to play a little matching game. There truly was no harm in him telling us his name, since we were bound to figure it out eventually either way, but now I was going to do this my way... and he wasn't going to like my way.

"Oh, I was mistaken," I said with a chuckle, and the man frowned. I tapped the paper with the back of one hand. "Two of these names are female, bringing my chances of guessing yours on the first try to a whopping 25." I watched the man a moment, then scrutinized the list again. "You don't look like a Richard to me," I mused, drawing my finger across the name Richard Aiken as if to strike it from the list.

The man's lip twitched ever so slightly. Hm. Aiken he was not.

"And you don't strike me as a Barry, either," I went on. His lip twitched again. Oh it was so interesting to watch the involuntary responses of the human face. Like breathing and blinking, facial reactions were involuntary--they _could_ be controlled and forced, but the initial gut responses couldn't be hidden from an observant eye. Those lip-twitches had been indicative of smug pleasure--a reflexive twitch of a smile. He _wasn't_ Richard Aiken or Barry Burton, and his relief and amusement that I hadn't figured out his name after all was apparent, even if only for an instant.

"Two names left," I said, mostly to myself, and then I looked at the man. "I have a 50% chance of getting it right this time."

The man looked a little concerned then, but only for a moment. He thrust his chin forward and narrowed his eyes. "If my name is even on that list," he said. "You could have _anybody's_ name on there; how do you know you've got mine?"

Two names left. Moment of truth time. I glanced at the names, then at the man at the table, then back at the names, and chose one.

"William Birkin," I read off, and his eyes widened almost imperceptibly, his lips parting.

Bingo.

"So it's Birkin, then," I said, setting the list down on the table and taking a seat across from him. "That's a locational name, isn't it? It's a city near Knottingly, if I'm not mistaken." I rarely was. "Interesting; I hadn't pegged you for an Englishman--you lack the educated look." The corner of my lip pulled up slightly. "And the bad teeth."

His fist thumped down on the table. "I lack an educated look? I am a professor of virology, you worthless _pig,"_ he snarled, defensive. "My great-grandfather was born in West Yorkshire--"

Oh, it seemed he had realized his blunder. My smile broadened. "I appreciate your confirmation," I said. "It's so amusing the way some people get uppity when you insult their heritage. Or their intelligence." I shook my head. "So, William, now that we have your name and profession, would you care to divulge why you were so adamant that it remain a secret?"

"I can help you with that."

I twisted in my chair and saw Mary still standing in the doorway. She hadn't returned to the observation room? I furrowed my brow, but tilted my head to beckon her inside. If she had some insight into the situation, I wasn't going to refuse it. I made to get up from the chair, but her hand landed heavy on my shoulder to press me back down as she stalked past me. Her fingers squeezed pointedly into my trapezius, and I squinted in discomfort--something was really wrong. Mary was stronger than her small frame suggested, but if I didn't know better I would have sworn she was trying to pierce my skin.

Something had her intensely agitated, and while I would have been the first to admit that William was rather exasperating, her anger with the situation seemed disproportionate. It seemed to be a running theme with her.

"What do you say we cut the crap, Birkin?" she snarled, releasing my shoulder and standing beside me, her hands planted firmly on the table as she leaned forward. "We already know about your little alliance with Wesker, so you can save your lies."

William sat back in his chair and looked at Mary before casting his eyes to me. "I assure you, detective, that having your pretty partner question me instead won't be any more persuasive than doing it yourself," he said, and Mary slapped her hands against the table before I even had a chance to rebut.

"Excuse me, you're talking to _me_ now, pal," she snarled, and I suddenly found myself wondering who exactly was the 'Bad Cop' between the two of us.

William's eyes lingered on mine, and I just shook my head. Mary had the floor now, and I was genuinely curious as to what exactly she had up her sleeves. While it was true there were a lot of things that _pointed_ to Birkin being part of Wesker's circuit, everything regarding Wesker was conjecture at this point. What did Mary know that she hadn't told me?

She shifted where she stood, moving into William's line of vision and effectively blocking my view of him with her shoulder.

"Tell us where Wesker is, and maybe we'll let you off easy," she said, and I inhaled to speak before thinking better of it. She hadn't consulted me regarding any deals to be put on the table, but I had an inkling that if I dared to interrupt or bring that fact up she would probably strike me.

I would bring it to her attention later.

"What makes you think I know where Wesker is?" William asked, and I assumed he shook his head, though I couldn't see him through Mary's ribs. "I hardly know the man."

"But you know _of_ him," she challenged, and William laughed.

"Who _doesn't?"_ he asked. "Wesker's name is all over the belly of this city, and you know it as well as I do. There isn't a crook out there who doesn't know Wesker."

"So you admit to being a crook, then," she said, and shifted again, twisting to lean against the wall then. William didn't look terribly daunted. I personally was just a little insulted at the insinuation that knowing who Wesker was made you a crook--that made _me_ a crook, and I resented the idea.

"Everybody in this town is a crook," he said, and I just snorted, resenting William's statement even more.

"That's a new approach," I admitted, and Mary glanced at me. There was a look in her eyes that left me a little unsettled--it was a look I recalled having seen in my brother's eyes on numerous occasions shortly before he did something incredibly foolish. It was the 'I've got this' look, and the fact that Mary was mimicking it here and now and so very perfectly indubitably meant this was not going to end well. The last time Dante had given me that look had been about a week before I had graduated high school. He had just finished refurbishing an old gnarled mess of a motorcycle into something that actually sort of resembled a motorcycle, and had assured me that he just needed a hand making sure he could get the engine started: all I had to do was turn the bike on while he checked the innards. Upon my inquiry as to whether or not he was sure this was a good idea, he had just given me that look.

His eyebrows had been burnt clean off in the subsequent explosion of the engine.

I didn't like where this was going.

She thrust her chin forward a bit--a gesture of genuine anger, which surprised me--and eyed Wesker, who was examining the scraggled tips of his sallow tawny-colored hair as if searching for split ends. His pale eyes lifted toward her from beneath the pallid fringe, and he tilted his head at her posture. She waited.

He stared a moment longer, then let his hands--still cuffed--fall to the table. "I don't know what you think this is going to accomplish," he said, his sunken eyes swinging to me briefly before moving back to Mary. "I told you already, I'm not saying anythi--"

"We already _know,_ Birkin," Mary cut him off, her arms still folded over her chest, and William lifted a hand to scratch at the crown of his head.

"Know?" He furrowed his brow, but he looked incredulous more than worried, and a chuckle dusted over his lips. "Dare I even ask what you think you know?" There was something dangerous in his eyes--something volatile, unstable, like maybe if he stood up too quickly something would boil over.

Mary moved then, sort of sliding forward languidly, as if her spine was made of water, and she leaned her elbows on the table. "We know about your whole little plan, Birkin," she said, and I just leaned back in my chair. Mary was decent at bluffing, but I really had no idea what she was playing at, so I just kept quiet. "We know you're one of Wesker's enforcers," she said, and for the first time since he had been roughly ushered into that room, I saw a ripple of fear cross William Birkin's face.

An enforcer? Why would calling him that make him sweat? Any beat cop who had ever driven through Little Italy knew what the mob groups called their hitmen; this wasn't anything alarm-worthy. I had no doubt William _was_ one of Wesker's enforcers--that was why we had caught him at the meeting at Gleason and Taylor. So what was it about Mary's calling him out that had him spooked?

Mary seemed to pick up on his sudden anxiety, because she leaned a little heavier on the table, her fingers threaded together. "So what was the purpose of your little meeting this week?" she asked, her hips swaying back and forth a little where she stood, like she was perhaps wagging her tail, as it were. "Planning to 'get a place ready' for another 'friend of ours'?"

At this, William's face blanched several shades, and Mary was grinning widely. I had no idea where she had dreamed up this little trick of hers, but it had certainly worked. William suddenly actually looked as though he might be willing to talk.

"Let's make this easy, Birkin," Mary said, an angry growl in her voice. "We know Wesker's the one calling the shots, so how about this: you tell us where we can find Wesker, and we'll cut you a deal. You make this difficult for us, and we'll put _you_ away instead."

Deciding it was probably safe to chime in, I tilted my head a bit and gave William a thin frown. "Still holding out for that lawyer, Bill?" I asked, but before he could answer, the door to the interrogation room was thrust open with a clatter. Twisting in my chair, my arms still folded, I craned my neck to peer at the figure in the ingress.

She was petite and slender, with dishwater blond hair that hung in long layers at her shoulders. She was all lines and angles; her chin was sharp and her eyes sharper, peering predatorily over the tops of overpriced sunglasses that she daintily slid down her pointed nose. The woman looked as if she could puncture with a stare, pierce with a word. Dressed in a perfectly tailored pantsuit and with a briefcase at her side, I could only assume that she was William's lawyer.

Removing her sunglasses from her face and hooking them neatly at the first button of her blouse, she inhaled softly through her nose, then exhaled audibly, a hint of a dangerous grin tugging at her mouth. "I smell fear," she said, and there was a beat of silence. She glanced at me, the grin bleeding a little wider. "I love that smell."

Definitely a lawyer. My eyes slid to William, and I frowned. For some reason he looked _more_ worried now that his lawyer was here.

Mary straightened and gave the lawyer a frown as the woman strode forward purposefully and extended one perfectly manicured hand. "Kate Boyd," she said. Her voice was milky, but still carried an edge--a broken shard of frosted glass. "I'll be speaking in Mr. Birkin's defense." She cast William that same dangerous grin, and he didn't move, as if he was frozen in his seat. "I do hope he hasn't been a... problem."

I sat forward, resting my elbows on the table as Mary shook the woman's hand and moved back to lean on the wall again. "Actually, Mr. Birkin was just about to tell us what he was doing trespassing in a condemned building," I said, and Kate clicked her tongue.

"I didn't mean a problem for _you._ He knows better than to say anything without council," she chided, sitting down at the corner of the table beside him. He actually leaned away from her as she set her briefcase down on the table, and I found myself wondering just what sort of relationship William had with his lawyer. I wasn't about to speak up about the merits of attorneys everywhere, but Kate Boyd certainly seemed a special breed of serpent if she was making someone like William Birkin squirm. "How much did you tell them, Bill?"

"I--"

"He was going to explain the role he plays in the administration," Mary piped up sharply, and I fought the urge to groan. Putting words in the suspect's mouth was fine _until_ the lawyer showed up, but once council was present, it could lead to trouble. I had a feeling the 'I've got this' look Mary had given me was about to live up to its reputation.

Kate clicked her tongue again, and William winced. She fidgeted a moment, twisting the plain silver band she wore on her left ring finger--a wedding ring, I assumed. She leaned in to speak softly in his ear and I squinted, trying to make out what she was saying, but had no luck. William swallowed visibly, then nodded once before shaking his head vehemently.

"Good," Kate said, and got to her feet again, clapping William heartily on the back, her hand lingering there briefly before she leaned forward, picking up her briefcase. William winced again. Kate turned to me. "You're the lead detective on this investigation, am I correct?"

I furrowed my brow. "Yes," I said, inclining my chin a bit. "Detective Vergil Zavattoni." I didn't extend my hand to shake hers.

She seemed unfazed. "And what exactly is my client being charged with?"

"At the moment? Trespassing and possible conspiracy," I said. "He was found in a condemned building with several others; I'm sure it won't take too long to figure out what they were up to and add to the list."

Kate narrowed her acid-green eyes and stared me down for a moment. I didn't blink. She huffed. "I presume he's being taken in for arraignment tomorrow?" she said, resting both hands on top of her briefcase on the table.

"Court is at 9am," Mary said, "and we've got enough to hold him for twenty-four hours, so if you've got any..."--she made a vague circular motion in the air with her hands and rolled her eyes--"preparations to make, better do it now, unless you wanna be visiting him in the cage."

The attorney was quiet for a moment, then flipped a stray lock of hair over her shoulder and cast William one more glance. "Further preparation won't be necessary," she said, and then her expression shifted, something poisonous creeping into her eyes. "Besides, William and I already know where he's going."

With that, Kate Boyd strode purposefully out of the room, and I exchanged a quick glance with Mary, who just shrugged. I didn't like the sound of Kate Boyd's words at all, and sort of rubbed my hands together, my fingers suddenly feeling inexplicably too cold.

"I think you got screwed on council, pal," Mary said to William, who was looking paler by the second, and was now absently scratching at his arm, as if he had a bug bite. "That was the worst demonstration of lawyering I've seen in a while."

I got to my feet without a word and headed for the door, and after giving William one more look, Mary followed. The door swung closed, and she frowned at me.

"Is it just me or did he do a total 180 once the lawyer showed up?" she asked, and I folded my arms.

"That's not uncommon," I reminded her, shaking my head, "though usually a suspects confidence _in_ creases with the presence of their lawyer. I don't think I've ever seen someone react... quite like that." I shook my head. "In any case, what was all that nonsense you were spouting, anyway?" I asked, shrugging one shoulder. "A friend of yours?"

She waved one hand noncommittally. "It's just some mob-speak I picked up," she assured me. "'Get a place ready' means to find a burial spot."

"I know," I said. "I'm the one who's been investigating mob presence in the city for the past two years, remember?" I didn't believe her for a second that she had just been improvising; she'd stepped in so vehemently when she had found out William's name that it seemed extremely unlikely to me that there was nothing more than that behind it. She wasn't too bad at bluffing in front of perps, but anyone could tell she was lying now. So who was the 'friend' she'd been referencing? 'A friend of mine' was usually a reference to someone outside the mob who was being vouched for, I knew that, but I couldn't quite connect the dots she had lined up.

Honestly, I was a little more worried about what Kate Boyd had said. If William Birkin was actually a part of the mafia, and his lawyer was concerned that he was 'a problem', then perhaps it was in William's best interests to get put in jail. If you were a Problem, you were a liability, and everyone knew what happened to you when you were a liability.

It would have explained William's sudden shift into apprehensive and fearful, in any case. I turned over my shoulder to peer at him through the two-way glass, watching as he continued scratching his arm. His skin was turning red and irritated beneath his fingernails, and I frowned at the motion. A nervous habit, I supposed--he certainly seemed to have enough to be nervous about, if Kate Boyd was his best line of defense: she seemed more interested in intimidating him than sticking up for him.

Tearing my eyes away from him, I looked at Mary, gesturing toward the glass with a tilt of my head. "Let's toss him in a cage for the night," I said, stepping away from the two-way and heading for the door that would let me out of the sound-box and back into the main part of the office. "we still need to talk to his buddies, and I'd like to maybe get something out of them before _their_ bloodsucking lawyers show up."

Mary lingered at the glass a moment, and I turned when I reached the door. She stared at William on the other side of the glass. His sunken eyes looked haunted now, and the scratch marks on his skin looked as if they were beginning to bleed. Whatever was going through William's head, I was sure I couldn't guess, but I was glad I wasn't in his position.

"Mary."

She turned when I called her name, and I jerked my head toward the door, twisting the handle to pull it open. We could hold William Birkin on minor charges, but if we wanted to put him away, or hope to make a viable play at getting him to hand Wesker over, we were going to need something a lot better than trespassing in our hand.

We still had work to do.


	11. Chapter 11

Two in the morning was the hour of epiphanies. I don't know who decided it, but I just knew that was how it worked. Lucky for me, 2:11 wasn't an odd time to be awake, considering I'd just finished dinner. Hung Ying's Chinese Take Out was a welcome change in diet, though I knew I'd be munching on hot pockets come noon the next day. In both cases, you really didn't want to ask what exactly you were eating--all that mattered was that it tasted good.

It had been three days since my brother last paid my humble adobe a visit, and honestly, I'd only returned to my apartment to shower, shave, and for a change of clothes. My shop had a back room with a couch, a fridge, and a pool table, anyway, I didn't need much else. Sometimes that warehouse by the water felt safer, anyway, what with all the constant domestic violence calls the couple above me always got. 2am was infinitely calmer at _Devil May Cry_.

I'd done a lot of thinking in the past few days, given there wasn't much else to do, odd jobs being low in demand. I'd come to the conclusion that, yes, I had been a jerk and sold a precious family article, and one that I had no right to sell in the first place, but I had also decided that Vergil wasn't an innocent man, either. I just knew he would never really come to understand my side of things. Yeah, he would describe every action I took, but did he really get what it all meant? No. He looked at life through a microscope, picking out each individual piece, but never putting them together to create a whole person. That was just how he was.

It was chewing on a tough piece of General Tso's Chicken that I realized what I'd been missing. It suddenly was so _clear_.

"...That kid!"

I don't know why I nearly stumbled with the chopsticks, slamming them down into the cardboard box, I set it aside. Too excited, but was it because it would help clear up my parents' cold case? I didn't know. I shuffled through the piles of garbage and some important notices on my desk--same difference, really--to find a business card with a number circled in red ink.

Slamming my fist down on the table, the phone flew off the receiver; I caught it with practiced ease. It was my first time dialing that number, but right then I knew it wasn't going to be the last. A painfully boring ring came on, looping a few times.

"C'mon, _c'mon_." My fingers tapped a storm on the desk impatiently. "Pick up!"

I finally heard a click. And I have to say, Vergil had never sounded happier to be alive.

Except for every other day of his life up until that point.

"Dante. It's 2am, " he practically groaned. "If you're not being held hostage in your apartment with a gun to your head right now, I'm hanging up."

How cute and chipper. "Alright," I started. "I'm being held hostage at gun point. They've issued their demands; two girls, one hot tub, and 10 million in cash. No feds."

"You have two seconds to redeem the purpose of this phone call with relevant information or I'm reporting you for harassment." Guess I was a dead man, then.

"Hey, you said you were gonna hang up otherwise," I said, leaning back into my chair. "I was just playing along."

There was a long sigh on the other line, what little patience he had at that hour wearing dangerously thin. "Fine, you have my attention." By the way the receiver shifted, I had the perfect image of him rubbing his face roughly to try and wake himself up. Kind of funny, considering he had always been infinitely better at getting up in the morning than I was. Guess morning for him didn't really count until it was at least 6, though.

"You're gonna be proud of me, big bro." I smiled to myself, reaching out to grab one of the few pre-packaged fortune cookies they gave me; I used to have to ask for extra, but they knew me well enough by then to at least give me five. I loved fortune cookies. "Do you wanna know why?" I paused, but not to the same sick extent his dramatic pauses tended to be. "Well, I'm gonna tell you anyway. It took a few days and a few shots of tequila, but I think I remember who I sold your necklace to."

"Oh excellent, I love it when my informants are intoxicated." There was a short beat before he gave a grunt, clearly giving into the fact that any news was helpful at that point. I was feeling pretty satisfied with myself at that moment, too. I heard the rustling of sheets, then a click in the background. Maybe something like a drawer opening before things settled down. "All right, so what's the name of your lucky shopper?"

I shrugged even though he couldn't see. "I have no idea." I didn't keep records of that kind of thing, remember, brother of mine? "He paid in cash, so it's not like I took down a check or credit card. But you know? He tripled the asking price right off the bat. _That_ kind of thing is just weird--usually people are fighting me tooth and nail to bring it _down._ " They never won.

"Great, I'll just put out an APB for all egregious over-spenders."

I frowned at that. "Hey, I _am_ trying to help, here." Resting the phone on my left shoulder, I went to undressing the cookie from its plastic wrapper. Cookies looked much better au naturale. 

"Yes, fine, I know, okay." He sighed, taking a moment to try and calm what grumpiness he could. Basically none. "Can you describe him, at least?"

"It wasn't like some big gangster buying a present for his most expensive whore." At least, I hoped not, because the image itself was pretty funny on its own, given the person I'd sold it to. "It was just some kid. Some kid in a hoodie."

"Dante, while I do appreciate your efforts, you have to realize my power is _somewhat_ limited. I can't just go and pull every kid in a hoodie off the street and throw them in a lineup for you." Well, yeah, he could, but he didn't want to. That wasn't the point, anyway--even I wasn't feeling that vindictive, I was still proud of myself, here. I wanted to gloat and enjoy my moment of superiority.

"It wasn't just some Insane Clown Posse hoodie, okay?" The fortune cookie popped forth from its wrapper. Oh, baby. "It was this weird maroon hoodie that was like sewn in chunks or something--maybe his own weird sense of fashion, I don't know. Honestly, he reminded me a bit of you--probably why I didn't pay much thought to it before." And probably why I sold it to the guy in the first place. I knew I was going to be really picky when the time came to let the piece go, but the price was right and something about the customer was _painfully_ sincere; I just couldn't say 'no'.

"Dante, I would _never_ wear a hoodie." He sounded positively offended. Somehow made the whole phone call worth it.

"Well, maybe you should consider it; the kid seemed to be a little more up-to-date in his fashion sense." I cracked the fortune cookie in two, but made sure to keep the little paper fortune turned down as I placed it on my knee. You couldn't just _read_ what it said right away; if you did, your fortune wouldn't come true. You had to eat it all first. "But there was something weird about this guy, and not because he didn't like cravats."

His reply was grating. "I told you before--it's an _ascot_."

I popped one half into my mouth, chewing for a second before continuing. "Let's pretend for a second that you actually _did_ pull every punk in a hoodie off the street, yeah? Just go with me on this little journey." 

"Must I, really? It's 2am, Dante..." Vergil sighed, clearly losing interest in my method of storytelling. But hey, I was the one with a story to tell.

"Yup." I swallowed, threw the other half of cookie in after the first. "How many of them would be decked out in religious regalia and carrying over two grand on hand?" I dusted cookie crumbs off my jeans. "He didn't spend much time browsing, either."

There was a pause on the other line. For a moment I thought he hung up on me. "All right, I'll admit that's a little unusual."

"Yeah, see? That's what I thought too." Weird kid. He had done _some_ time wandering, but looking back on it, he really didn't seem interested in anything. When he saw the amulet he was sold before he even asked how much I wanted for it. I'd been reluctant, of course, but when he weaved two-thousand in front of me, well, who was I to refuse? It'd been a short reprieve in the debt on my head, though I still had to pay my electric bill. Talk about failing in timing. If only he'd stopped by just one week before...

I shook my head to stop my own stream of thoughts. "Anyway, like I said the other day, it wasn't that long ago. It's possible he hasn't skipped town yet." Not much reason for him to, as far as I could tell. "He's probably off somewhere showing it off to his girlfriend as we speak."

He gave me the gift of another one of his pauses. "What sort of religious regalia was he wearing?"

"Bunch of fancy catholic stuff. Kinda gave me an idea, you know?" I picked up one the chopsticks, licking off the sauce and small pieces of General Tso's. "How you feeling about Sunday school this weekend?"

"I work Sundays." Guess the better question should have been was when did he _not_ work? Though I was pretty confident I already knew the answer. "However, if I were a trendy Catholic hipster with money to burn, I suppose I might find myself at St. Patrick's Cathedral for my weekly dose of piety. It's worth looking into, at least." 

I was picking my teeth with the chopstick at that point. "Now we're talking. You know what they say about Father Bianchi? The only loyalty he's got is to the hand that puts cash in his pocket, and that's usually the Mafia." Not the kind of place any good Catholics wanted to find themselves on a Sunday afternoon. But what the public didn't know, didn't hurt it, right?

Yeah. _Right_.

"Unfortunately, church and state haven't really mixed since 1802, and my badge is all but worthless once I walk through those doors." I _thought_ I could hear him smile, but thought the better of it. He only smiled when he had my face half an inch from his blade. "I don't suppose you might be up to the challenge?"

That honestly caught me off guard--maybe he _did_ have my face half an inch from a blade. "What, you're saying you actually _trust_ me?" No, that couldn't be it. Three days wouldn't have changed _that_ much between us. "Or are you just hoping I'll end up on the wrong side of someone else's gun to make your job easier?" St. Patrick's wasn't necessarily a playground unless you liked to put your life on the line. Guess that meant it was time for recess.

"Dante, if I wanted you dead, I would at least do you the courtesy of killing you myself." Well, it looked like some things never changed. "I'm not saying I trust you, but I know what battles to fight, and I think this one's got your name all over it."

_Well_ , if I didn't know any better, I would say that it sounded like a compliment of sorts. Coming from my brother. My estranged brother who just the other day was saying he preferred that I actually _had_ been dead. Was the sky falling or was that just some sort of twisted reality crashing down on my head?

"Besides, you're the only one who can ID the kid anyway." Ah, there we go. I was infinitely more comfortable with his ability to stick to logic.

I snorted. "Right." Stabbing the chopstick back into the box of cooling Chinese food, I glanced at the clock on my wall. 2:31. "Well, I guess I better let you catch up on your beauty sleep. I'd hate for you to roll in downtown in the morning in a wrinkly cravat."

"Ascot." I heard him fight a yawn. "Call me when you find our guy." He hung up.

_When_ , not _if_ huh? Looked like I was all ready moving up in the world. Now if only his partner would have a similar change of heart, we'd be getting somewhere. I tossed the phone over, not bothering to watch it bounce and land perfectly onto the receiver. Yeah, I _was_ that good. Just before I delved back into dinner, I remembered the fortune sitting on my knee.

Upon turning it over, I smirked.

"'All your hard work will pay off.' _Heh._ " That one I tucked into my back pocket. "I sure hope you're right."

* * *

St. Patrick's Cathedral was the Notre Dame of New York. If you wanted to feel completely dwarfed next to a building that had more spikes than a punk kid at a rock concert, then hanging out by the church would be a good idea. Religion and I never really mixed in the first place and that really hadn't changed over the years. I knew about all the background activities that took place at the cathedral, but I'd always made a point to not get involved. It was one thing to dupe someone at a game of cards, it was another to prey off people's beliefs in order to further your own benefit.

Hey, I said I was a jerk, not a pimple on the butt of society. I'd known a few pimples in my day, and nothing really beat the kind of guys who liked to try and make connections with the local mafia. I would be lying if I said I hadn't played around with it a bit myself, but I'd always made sure to keep a low enough profile and not make an amazing impression at first--a very difficult task for me, I assure you--that I generally was off the radar. Tony Redgrave was no mobster--he was just a lowly gambler with a few extra skills on the side.

I wasn't a religious church-goer, but I knew where to be. I guess it was that honesty among thieves sort of thing, or maybe I was amazing at what I did, but I was generally pretty good at finding the back corners to slip my way into most underground establishments, no matter where they were. I'd like to call it a talent, but somehow I doubt the greater public would find it marketable.

11am was not the best time to be out and about if you were me, but I made an exception. Part of it was guilt-driven, but I'd gotten to St. Patrick's just before the morning service on Sunday. Taking the subway wasn't my favorite mode of transportation, but I wanted to separate myself as much from, well, _myself_ as possible. I had a 1967 Pontiac GTO that I wasn't going to _dream_ of getting caught up in that if things got ugly. No way--I'd spent way too much time and money on that baby to let a single unwatched scratch touch her custom paint job.

So I took the subway and dealt with piss-stained seats and angry old women blocking the fire exits. It was a worthwhile sacrifice.

I spent the first fifteen minutes before the service just watching people file inside. The sanctuary would take a while to fill--it could house the better half of 2,500, according to Google. As many people as I saw flowing towards the main doors, I doubted there was something wrong with being fashionably late. But filtering through the crowd was about as productive as watching paint dry. I tried to put myself in that kid's shoes:

I was young, kind of quiet, overly devoted to wearing my faith on my wrist, and burning a hole in my pocket for trinkets. But for what, for who? If there was a girl in the picture, I better have been getting some after spending that much on a necklace.

Thinking back on the kid, though, I figured I probably wasn't. If that was the case, I was suffering from some serious self-esteem issues and probably went to church out of obligation, or maybe some distant hope that God would give me an answer to help me end my celibacy. That kind of prayer wouldn't be very popular up front--the kid had to hang out in the back.

It was flawless logic, really. I had it all figured out.

So that's where I went; the last few pews. Hanging out on the isle seat of the final row was my stake-out. I saw down, hoping my target would, first of all, be there, and second of all not take long to show up.

I had to sit through nearly two-hours of mind-numbing...I don't even know what to call it. I don't think I'd been up and down repeatedly for no reason so many times in my life before. If I was sitting, I was sitting because I wanted to sit. Don't make me get up just when I'm getting comfortable. Nearing the end of the second hour, I decided to screw formalities and just keep my butt planted in that pew. Let God himself move me if he wanted. Or at least give me a cushion--that hard wood was a pain in the ass. Literally.

It was towards the end of the service that a familiar hoodie peeked out from behind a column. 

Yeah, I knew I was right. I did enjoy being validated.

There was a girl in the front singing some sort of solo hymn, all eyes were on her. This left me the perfect opportunity to watch my target. I rested my arm on the back of the seat, positioning myself slightly sideways so it wasn't too obvious what I was doing.

His hoodie was pulled up over his face, but I could still make out the white bangs sticking out and at the side of his cheeks, bulky headphones just touching his chin as they sat around his neck. One hand was in his pocket, while the other was tucked against his chest, covered by a coat that sat over his hoodie as well. He was hurt? I hadn't remembered that at the shop--he'd worn long sleeves and gloves. 

He was scowling in a way that reminded me way too much of Vergil, but something in his expression seemed almost sad. I followed his gaze to the front of the hall, watching the girl sing. She was probably hispanic with long, dark hair, and hips that didn't lie. Not bad taste, kid. But just as his interest seemed to piqued, his scowl deepened and he turned around.

Well, that was my cue.

I caught him in the doorway, putting my full weight into each step so that he heard me approach. His own pace slowed to a stop, tension in his shoulders and a suspicious glance shot over his shoulder.

"Leaving so soon?" I asked, stopping a few feet away to give him some space. The last thing I needed was for him to run. "Can't say I blame you--I think I've got a date with Ass Master after sitting on a glorified log."

He didn't seem to find that as funny as I thought it was. "Do I _know_ you?" he asked with all the sass of any good teenager.

"That's right, you aren't supposed to talk to strangers." I took a step forward, offering a grin in greeting. "Guess it's a good thing we're not strangers."

He frowned, the fingers on his left hand flexing before the turned more fully to face me. "What are you going _on_ abou--"

It was like watching one of those old cartoons on Saturday mornings. The kid's eyes widened almost dramatically when he recognized me--or at least that's what I assume that expression was for and not just in awe of my face--and I could practically hear the the wheels slowly turning in his head. A bit of oil and he'd be as good as new. I raised my brow, tilting my head to the side. The song behind us ended, and as if on cue, he suddenly took off the second she was given her applause.

Now, that wasn't the run of a satisfied customer at all. And as much as I wanted to stay and listen to the next three years of the service, I had some work of my own to do.

He shoved an usher out of the way, tearing out of the sanctuary and into the main hall. I hopped over the roadblock, skidding out after him. I had to hand it to the guy, he put up a good chase. The halls must have been empty because service was still in session, making the static from whatever music he had with him echo off the walls. I appreciated a good soundtrack to ass-kicking, but I preferred to be my own DJ. The pounding of our shoes on marble floors had a pretty good beat, actually. If my co-musician hadn't been doing his best Sonic the Hedgehog impression, we could have really had something to market.

The kid was fast, but I was faster.

He must have thought he had me when he darted out a side door, slamming it shut behind him. Like _that_ would stop me. My foot hit the door right in the center, cracking the wood under the heel of my boot as it flew off its hinges like we were in some action movie. We might as well have been; he was standing, back half-turned as he watched the door shoot by him in slow motion--or at least that was how I imagined it, dramatic wind under my trench coat and all.

He made a move to dive off again, but I grabbed him by the hood of his hoodie. Yanking him backwards, I spun him around, slamming him chest-first against the wall of the church. He let out a grunt as I pressed my shoulder forward into his.

"Guess it's safe to say you're not worried about your eternal soul."

"Blow me." Looked like he wasn't out of fuel yet.

"Thanks, but no thanks, kid. Not into that kinda thing." See? I had a sense of humor, too. He actually looked mildly horrified that I had taken him seriously.

"...That's not what I--"

"Yeah, I know." I dug my elbow into his lower back and he grunted again. "I'm not here for those kind of favors, anyway," I explained, leaning in closer. "You have something of mine that I'm going to have to ask for back. I usually don't care much for return policies, but for your case, I'll make an exception."

He took a grated breath, face flat against the wall. " _Returns_? Heh. You think this is fair?"

"You know what? Yeah, I do." I started padding him down like a TSA officer. Sure, I didn't know what I was doing, but I knew what I was looking for.

I could hear the smirk in his voice. "You got a jacked-up notion of fair play pal, and it's beginning to piss me off." His elbow found my gut before I could throw back my own snarky reply, knocking my breath out of me just long enough to give him a window of opportunity. He pushed me backwards, I stumbled and recovered, but not in enough time. The next thing I saw were the twin soles of brown boots in my face. He kicked me in the _face_.

I let my guard down. My mistake.

Landing on my back, I was reminded of the poor treatment my brother had given it nearly a week prior. Once I skidded to a stop, cursing the grass stains that were going to show up all over my coat, I propped myself up onto my elbows. He was standing there looking all the part of some cocky little punk with too much money. 

"What kind of business are you trying to run here?" He wiped the underside of his nose with his left hand; I could see his right wrapped tightly in a cast that sat in a sling hanging from around his neck. He had a lot of nerve for an disabled punk. I had to admire that a bit, maybe because it's the kind of thing I would do. Or it's exactly the kind of thing I'd do, and if there's anything to admire, it's myself.

"I guarantee the quality of my goods, not the customer service," I said, pushing myself to my feet. I tasted blood on my gums, and upon wiping my bottom lip, found it split. Great. I smeared the blood back onto my shirt. "Now where is it?"

" _Heh._ " He rolled the shoulder of his good arm. "It'll take more than you throwing your weight around." I had to give the kid credit, he had balls (which totally debunked my whipped by the girlfriend theory). Well, I wasn't running on a tight schedule, so playing around for a bit wouldn't have been much of a problem. I stood up. Turning my palm upwards, I motioned him forward.

Despite being injured, he held his own. His left fist flew at my face again and again, I blocked with the underside of my forearms. He never seemed to lose steam, instead just sneering each time his punch missed its target. I let him force me backwards, trying to gauge just how much force I was going to need to use on this guy. I had a mission to accomplish, but I wasn't about to throw a cripple into a brick wall.

Yet, at least.

The fists kept coming and I was growing bored. I grabbed his wrist with the next round, to which he responded with stepping on my toes with one foot before flying around to kick me in the side with the other. I flew backwards again, doing a roll on the ground into a bench that sat not far away from the church walls. I broke the roll into a small flip and landed on the bench, reclining like I had been sitting there all day. The amount of swag I weiled at any given time was really astounding. His kick had sent him into a whirl while he reached into his jacket; he stopped a few yards away, pointing a gun at me. Ah, so it wasn't balls at all; guns made every boy feel like a man. Holding one and shooting it were two different things entirely.

"Not bad," I said honestly, resting my elbows on the back of the wooden bench.

"I don't need to hear that from you," he responded, finger sitting dangerously on the trigger. He had a perfect shot if he had wanted to take it. He didn't.

"But would you shoot even a sinner like me on holy ground?" There was hesitation written across his face--it gave the opening I needed. I jumped, lunging forward like a linebacker with the football tucked against my chest. Yards were closed in seconds as I barreled right into him, grabbing the kid by the waist and bringing him down with me, the gun falling out of his grip and landing some feet away. He gave a heavy groan when we hit the ground--it was my intention just to hold him there.

"I can make the really easy on the both of us, kid." Hands gripping his good forearm, my knees were locked on his thighs. "Just hand it over and you'll be back inside in enough time for confession, got it?"

He grunted, eyes narrowing on me. "Why is it that important to you?"

I frowned. Honestly, I couldn't say it _wasn't_ his business considering the fact that I was accosting him before Sunday School for it, but at the same time I really felt it _wasn't_ his business; it was my family, not his. Perhaps it was my fault for not making him an informed buyer. Oh well, hindsight and all that jazz.

"I could ask the same thing," I said, digging through the front pocket of his coat. "What, does your girlfriend have it or something?"

That hindsight thing never really seemed to kick in with me. I must have struck a nerve because his glare hardened and threatened to set me on fire. For a moment I was facing the Terminator, or maybe the Hulk. No, both; a robot hulkish monster from the future. He hiked both of his knees up at the same time, ramming me in the stomach. I lost my breath; he shoved me off one-handed.

His fist found my face before I could breathe normally again. I wasn't against roughing up a disabled kid right then, no matter how politically incorrect it was. I returned the blow and pretty soon we were both sporting bloody noses and new bruises to show off. But throwing punches like some street kid wasn't what I had gone there to do. I grabbed the front of his shirt, he locked my waist with both of his legs and literally tossed me over his head.

Some kid.

I rolled, landing back on my haunches and froze. He had recovered his gun and it was pointed right at me. Again. I sighed, smiling and shaking my head.

"C'mon, I don't have time for you to wave that thing around." His finger was on the trigger, shaking, but it was there. He meant business, or at least that was what he wanted me to think. 

"Tough guy, huh?" he sneered, whatever flame I had ignited still burning in his eyes. He nodded his head to the side, holding his injured arm close to his chest as he cocked the gun. "Well...I think I'll have to take you down a couple notches."

I sighed. "Look, kid, whatever you got going on with your girlfriend, it's not what I--"

He fired.

I _felt_ the bullet fly by my ear, the movement of air sending my hair in my eyes for just a second. The crack of wood as it hit a tree behind me a nanosecond later was the second indication that he had nearly taken my head off. He looked more shocked than any rage-ridden almost-killer should have.

"Getting better..." I said, slowly standing to my feet. He hardened his gaze again, maybe trying to find another batch of courage or whatever it was that got him to actually _shoot_ at me. I took a step forward, he took a step back, but that gun was still pointing at me. Fine, two could play dirty. Actually, I was pretty good at it.

Reaching into the holsters I kept hidden underneath my coat--I was in public, after all--I reached for the familiar cool metal of my most prized possessions. "I would even go as far as to say that I underestimated your..." This kid's old school revolver had nothing on Ebony and Ivory. I mirrored his position with both my guns and took another step forward, he took another step back. "...abilities."

Words died between us for a long moment. We were a couple of gunslingers in an old western, all that was missing was the tumbleweed. The rise and fall of his chest with each heavy breath was clearly visible, as was a bead of sweat that had built up on his brow. He was nervous, but he wasn't backing down. If it was his safety he was concerned with, he would have forfeited the amulet and pissed off by now. It was pretty clear to me; he'd come to my shop on an errand and he fulfilled it. But whether it was because he was blowing his parent's cash on a fancy gift or just wanted to piss me off, I couldn't tell. My fingers tightened on the triggers of my guns, as did his. It was a standstill; only one could make the first move and survive.

That person was me.

I squeezed down with my left hand. The kid blinked. Ebony fired a blank, shell falling to the ground. It gave me just the opening I wanted. In the seconds he recovered, probably realizing that he didn't have his head splattered against the church wall, I jumped forward, closing the distance between us as Ivory aimed right for his head. He tried to counter with his own gun, I smacked it out of his hands with Ebony, leaving my right-handed pistol keeping him in place.

He blocked me. With his injured arm, which moved suspiciously easily and in near perfect time as the barrel of my gun found the hard cast. He was flinching. I frowned.

"Not very attached to your right arm, kid?" He hesitated. People weren't much different than animals when it came down to it, and any injured animal always hide the limb that was vulnerable. "Guess you won't mind, then." Before he could respond, I pivoted, tossing Ebony into the air as I grabbed his arm, twisting it up and around.

" _Hey!_ " He yanked back with the full range of movement any _healthy_ person would have. Catching Ebony as she came back down to earth, I jabbed him in the gut with my elbow and smacked him upside the back of his head with the side of Ivory. He gave an audible 'unf' and hit the ground like, well, a sack of potatoes, whatever that is supposed to look like. Probably like he did.

I nudged him onto his back with the toe of my boot. He was wincing and gave a low grunt, but didn't resist. Sliding both girls back into the their holsters, I leaned over him on one knee, tilting my head to the side.

"This just isn't your day, is it?" He gave another grunt to that. He didn't seem to have enough energy to resist another pat down. Despite his poor attempts at verbal protesting and a half-assed swat at my face, I found what I was looking for. Wrapped in a handkerchief, I found the medallion tucked into the back of his jeans, behind the dumb hoodie and his belt.

Removing the stained white cloth, there was the familiar ruby, over-sized and placed neatly in a gold seat. I let the chain dangle for a moment, somehow feeling that I was reconnecting with the past. This was Vergil's amulet, after all, a piece that I had made sure not to look at. They used to belong to our father, given to us by our mother; one of the last things she had entrusted to us before her murder. It really hadn't been mine to sell in the first place.

At least I could reclaim some sense of humanity in returning it. Guilt was never something I liked to have hanging around for very long.

As I stood up, the kid's arm reached out in vain, fingers outstretched, before dropping back to the ground. "What--..." he started, closing his eyes for a moment. "What's the...big deal? I don't--"

"No deal." I shoved the amulet in a hidden pocket in the lining of my coat. "It's something that's gotta stay in the family." His eyes opened again, blue and confused. Incredulous was the only word I could think of that would describe it. Whatever, I wasn't going to offer any explanation, even if it was kind of my fault he got dragged into this family mess.

"But I'm still a businessman." Reaching into the back pocket of my jeans, I pulled out a hefty wad of bills kept together with a rubber band. I took it off, forming a gun with my fingers and firing it at the church wall before tossing the cash on the boy like flowers at a funeral.

"Full refund, in cash." I turned to leave, giving my coat a dramatic whip for effect. "Don't ever say I didn't do you any favors." I waved over my shoulder, heading back to the parking lot before service ended. "Adios, kid."


End file.
